


On Her Majesty's Secret Service

by Persiflage



Series: Bondkink Fics [39]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - Ian Fleming
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Rewrite, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Minor Character Death, Mission Fic, Non Linear Narrative, Romance, Spies & Secret Agents, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-03-06
Packaged: 2017-12-03 11:23:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 55,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/697724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persiflage/pseuds/Persiflage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>MI6 encounters SPECTRE and its mastermind, Ernst Stavro Blofeld.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wolfsbride](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfsbride/gifts).



> This is essentially a re-writing of Fleming's novels _Thunderball_ and _On Her Majesty's Secret Service_ but featuring the Craig!Bond movie era characters instead of Fleming's. So all kudos to Ian Fleming for the major plot details concerning SPECTRE and its fiendish plans. I've set it not long after the events of the _Quantum of Solace_ movie. (When I say it's a rewrite of the novels - I mean that quite literally - most of this stuff is Fleming's, not mine.)  
>  **Spoilers** : Thunderball, OHMSS, Casino Royale, Quantum of Solace.  
>  **Disclaimer** : Absolutely NOT mine, and no profits are earned.

Chapter One

Bond walked into M's office with a sense of curiosity; he'd just seen Bill Tanner standing beside Eve Moneypenny's desk with a sheaf of paperwork which he was talking her through in a low, urgent voice, and the Chief of Staff had barely spared a glance for the Double-0 agent before waving him through M's door.

M was seated at her desk, her laptop open in front of her, and a pile of paperwork alongside the keyboard.

"Sit down, 007. I'll be with you shortly," she said quietly with a nod at the chair on Bond's side of the desk.

He obeyed, crossing one elegantly suited leg over the other, and gazed out at the London skyline as he waited for M to finish whatever she was doing.

After only a few more moments she turned her attention from the screen and gazed at him. "You're looking healthy enough," she observed.

"Ma'am?"

"You've been keeping your fitness levels up?" she asked. "Not drinking too much, or having too many late nights since that business with Greene?"

"No ma'am," he answered, feeling both irritated and slightly bemused. Whatever was she driving at, he wondered.

"Good. I want you to look at these." She slid some of the paperwork on top of her pile across the desk and he leaned forward to pick it up. The top sheet was a photocopy of the front and back of an addressed envelope which had clearly been checked for fingerprints. He glanced up and saw M's blue eyes fixed firmly on his face, then he looked down at the photocopy again. The envelope, marked 'PERSONAL AND MOST IMMEDIATE', was addressed to the Prime Minister by name, and with the correct address given in full. There was even a PC against the PM's name, to indicate he was a member of the Privy Council. The envelope was post-marked at 8.30pm, suggesting to Bond that the letter had been dropped into the mail before the final collection of the day. The envelope looked business-like and purposeful, and the letter on the photocopy beneath it, was equally focused. Bond began to read:

Mr Prime Minister,

You should be aware, or you will be if your communicate with the Chief of the Air Staff, that, since approximately 10pm yesterday, 2 June, a British aircraft carrying two atomic weapons is overdue on a training flight – 

He swiftly looked up again. "Is there a missing plane?" he asked.

M nodded. "Yes. And the details given in the letter of the plane's identifiers, and those of the bombs, are one hundred percent accurate."

Bond glanced back down at the letter and rapidly read the remainder of it, before noting that it was signed SPECTRE, which was helpfully explained as being The Special Executive for Counterintelligence, Terrorism, Revenge, and Extortion. A third photocopy gave detailed instructions for the delivery of a ransom payment, not, as Bond would have expected, an electronic transfer of funds to a numbered Swiss bank account, but for five hundred million pounds in gold bullion.

"A touch old-fashioned, aren't they?" he observed, looking back up at M.

"Positively archaic," she answered, her tone indicating irritation.

"What have we got to go on?"

"Precious little. In fact, nothing at all, practically speaking. No one seems to have heard of SPECTRE. We do know there's a new, independent group over on the Continent from whom we've bought some stuff, as have the Americans, and Mathis' replacement has told us that a French heavy-water scientist named Goltz, who went over last year, was assassinated by them for big money. It was Mathis who accepted the offer from Goltz on a hunch, but there was nothing to tie this group in with SPECTRE. When we and the Americans deal with the group there are always endless middlemen, really professional ones, through whom we have to go, and to be honest, we've always been more interested in the end product than the people involved. Both we and the Americans have paid a lot of money for what we've bought, but it's always worth it. If this new group is SPECTRE, then they're a serious outfit, as I have explained to the PM. But that's not really the point – there really is a plane and two atomic bombs missing, just as the letter says. It was on a NATO training flight south of Ireland and out into the Atlantic."

Bond watched as M pulled a bulky file towards her and opened it to rifle through the pages until she found the one she wanted. 

"It was to be a six-hour flight leaving at 8pm and due back at 2am. On board was an RAF crew of five and a NATO observer, an Italian man called Petacchi, Guiseppe Petacchi, who was a squadron leader in the Italian Air Force, and seconded to NATO. A fine flyer, apparently, but we're checking his background now. He was sent over here on a tour of duty."

She sighed. "Anyway, the plane was watched on the screen as usual, and all went well until it was west of Ireland at about 40,000 feet. Then, contrary to the drill, it came down to around 30,000 and got lost in the transatlantic air traffic. Bomber Command tried to get in touch, but the radio couldn't or wouldn't answer. The immediate reaction was that the plane had hit one of the transatlantic planes and there was something of a panic, but none of the airlines reported any trouble, or even a sighting." M looked over at Bond. "And that was the end of it – the plane just vanished."

Bond asked, "Didn't the American early warning system pick it up?"

"There's a query on that. It's the only scrap of evidence we've got. Apparently, about five hundred miles east of Boston there was some indication that a plane had peeled off the inward route to Idlewild and turned south. But that's another big traffic lane, for the northern traffic from Montreal, and Gander down to Bermuda, the Bahamas, and South America. So the early warning system operators just put it down as a BA or Trans-Canada plane."

Bond rubbed his forehead. "It sounds as if they've got the whole thing planned out meticulously, hiding in the traffic lanes. Could the plane have turned northwards in the middle of the Atlantic and headed to Russia?"

"Yes, or southwards. There's a large area about five hundred miles out from both shores that's out of radar range. It could even had turned back on itself and come back into Europe on any of two or three air-lanes. In fact it could be almost anywhere in the world now, which is why all hell's breaking loose." 

"But it's a huge plane, isn't it? It must need special runways and so on. It must have come down somewhere. You can't hide a plane that size."

"Quite. All these things are obvious. By midnight last night the RAF had checked with every single airport, every one in the world, that could have taken it. None of them had. But the Chief of Air Staff says it could have crash-landed in the Sahara for instance, or some other desert, or even in the sea in shallow water."

"Wouldn't that explode the bombs?" Bond asked, slightly alarmed by the idea.

"No, they're absolutely safe until they're armed. Apparently even a direct drop, like that one from the B-47 over North Carolina in 1958, would only explode the TNT trigger to the thing, not the plutonium itself."

"So how will this SPECTRE group explode them, then?"

M spread her hands. "They explained all this at the War Cabinet meeting. I don't understand all of it, but apparently an atomic bomb looks just like any other bomb; the nose is full of ordinary TNT and the plutonium's in the tail. Between the two there's a hole into which a detonator is screwed, a sort of plug. When the bomb hits, the TNT ignites the detonator and that sets off the plutonium."

"Doesn't that mean these people would have to drop the bomb in order to set it off, then?"

"Apparently not. All they'd need is a man with good knowledge of physics who understood how it works. Then all he would have to do is unscrew the nose cone on the bomb, the ordinary detonator that sets of the TNT, and attach a time fuse to ignite the TNT without it being dropped. And these bombs aren't very bulky – you could fit one into something about twice the size of a big golf-bag. Of course, they're very heavy, but you could put one into the back of a big car, for example, drive it into a town, and leave it parked there with the time fuse set a couple of hours ahead, to give yourself time to get out of its range, which would be at least one hundred miles away, and that would be that."

Bond was horrified, and said so. "We must find these SPECTRE people."

"That's why you're here, 007," M said. "Every single intelligence agent across the globe who's on our side, European, American, Commonwealth, every last one, is being pulled into this operation. They're calling it Operation _Thunderball_." She rolled her eyes and Bond suppressed a grin. 

"Planes, ships, subs, will all be searching – and of course money's no object. We can have everything we want, whenever we want it. The Cabinet's already set up a special staff and a war-room, into which every single scrap of intelligence and information will be passed. The Americans have done the same. Some kind of leak will occur, of course, but we're trying to spin that and make it all about the missing plane and bombs. We want to keep SPECTRE's name out of the media, if we can. We're keeping the letter secret, and Scotland Yard, along with the FBI, Interpol, and all the NATO intelligence agencies, will help out with the detective work on the letter."

She leaned back in her chair and Bond abruptly realised that she looked more exhausted than he'd ever seen her: there were dark smudges under her eyes, and although her clothes and hair were immaculate, he suspected she hadn't gone home since this panic had begun.

"Anyway, the matter of the letter will be dealt with separately from the search for the plane and bombs. That's being handled as a top espionage matter and no one should be able to connect the two investigations, we hope. MI5 is going to handle the background searches on the five crew members and the Italian observer. But we are teaming up with the CIA to cover the world. Every American agent will be put into the search operation, as will every British agent. I've got Moneypenny and Tanner sorting out the details of the General Call. All we can do now is sit back and wait."

"So where do I come into this, ma'am?" Bond asked curiously. He somehow doubted that she intended _him_ to sit back and wait.

She gave him a vague look, as if she hadn't noticed him before, which Bond knew wasn't the case, then she swung her chair around and gazed out of the window before speaking, "I've committed a breach of faith with the PM in telling you all of this, Bond. I swore an oath not to tell anyone what I've just told you." Unseen, Bond's eyebrows rose into his hairline. 

"I decided to tell you because I've an idea, a hunch, if you will, and I want this hunch followed up by someone I trust absolutely." She still hadn't looked around, and he felt a strange flutter of excitement in his stomach at her words. "It seems to me that the only scrap of evidence we've got in this case is the American early warning system's report of the plane that left the East-West air channel over the Atlantic and turned south towards Bermuda and the Bahamas. I've decided to operate on the basis of this evidence, although no one else seems remotely interested, and after spending some time studying maps and charts of the Western Atlantic, I tried to put myself into the mind of SPECTRE's leader, because it undoubtedly does have a mastermind orchestrating this plot, and I decided what I would target with the two bombs, were I in charge."

"What did you decide, ma'am?" He had no doubt she would make some educated and intelligent guesses, because he knew how formidable M's intelligence and experience were.

"I believe they'll target America, rather than Europe. Finding installations to hit that are worth more than five hundred million pounds, which could thus be a target for the first bomb, is easier in America than in Europe. The style of the letter, the fact that the paper is Dutch, and the ruthlessness of the plot, all seem to back up my belief that SPECTRE is a European organisation rather than an American one, so I believe they will target America, not Europe. It's my belief that the plane couldn't have landed in America itself, nor off the East coast since the radar network is too good, so I looked for somewhere nearby that might be suitable, and I decided the Bahamas were the likeliest spot." 

She turned in her chair to glance at Bond, as if to reassure herself that he was still listening. "It's a group of islands with only one simple radar station that's mainly concerned with civilian air traffic and staffed by local civilian personnel. Most of the islands are uninhabited, and are surrounded by shoal water over sand where a plane could've been brought down relatively easily. There are no worthwhile targets south, towards Jamaica, Cuba and the Caribbean, and they're too far from the American coastline. Similarly, northwards towards Bermuda, there's the same lack of suitable targets. But the nearest of the Bahama group is only two hundred miles, six or seven hours in a fast yacht or motorboat, from the East coast of America."

"If you're right, why didn't SPECTRE send their letter directly to the US President, instead of only copying him in on the one to the PM?" asked Bond.

"For the sake of obscuring their intentions, I imagine," M answered. "To make us waste time in hunting all over the world for the damned plane, instead of looking in just one area. And for maximum impact, of course. SPECTRE probably intended the letter, coming on top of the loss of the bomber, to hit us for six. They might even have hoped to rattle us hard enough to make us pay the ransom without making any attempt to trace the missing plane. After all, the next stage in their operation is going to be pretty nasty for them – attacking the first target will expose their whereabouts to a certain extent, which means they'll want to collect the money and close the operation as fast as they can. And that's what we'll have to gamble on. We've got to push them as close to using the first bomb as we dare in the hope that they'll betray themselves in the next six and a half days. It's long odds, I know, but I'm pinning my hopes on my hypothesis, and on you Bond."

She swung her chair back around and gave him a hard look. "Any comments or questions, 007? If not, you'd better get started. Tanner's booked you on all the New York flights from now until tomorrow midnight. I did think of sending you in an RAF plane, but I don't want your arrival to be noticed. You'll be going out as a rich playboy who's looking for some property in the Bahamas. A role I know you can play very well."

Bond tried not to wince at that remark, knowing that M was recalling the business with Dimitrios and his wife. "With whom do I cooperate in Nassau?" 

"The Governor knows you're coming. They've got a well-trained police force there, and the CIA are sending someone down too. Go and see what Q-Branch can give you, and make sure you keep me informed of everything, please, Bond." She gave him a hard stare and he nodded, recalling the way she'd let him off the leash in La Paz after Ms Fields had been killed.

He got to his feet, gave her another nod and a "Ma'am", then let himself out of her office.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

_Two days ago, somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean_

Guiseppe Petacchi was a man who always had an eye to the main chance and very expensive tastes so when one of SPECTRE's men, who had been searching the personnel of NATO via the night-clubs and restaurants of Paris and Versailles, approached him with a very lucrative proposition which would give the greedy little Italian all he wanted (plenty of money, a new passport, and a chance to leave the pale green corridors of NATO behind forever), the pilot had jumped at the offer. 

It had taken the SPECTRE man, currently known as No 4, a month to prepare the ground, and then there'd been a delay while his organisation had checked for the possibility of a double-cross, but finally he'd been able to lay out the plan for Petacchi: he was to get onto the training course for the pilots of the bombers which carried the atomic weapons, then hijack the plane (no mention was made of the atomic weapons). He told Petacchi that his organisation was a revolutionary group who wanted to call attention to its existence and aims by a piece of self-advertisement. Not that the Italian had believed this specious tale for one moment, but he didn't actually care who wanted the plane so long as he got paid the price agreed: three million dollars, a new passport in the name and nationality of his choice, and immediate onward passage from the plane's point of delivery to Rio de Janeiro. 

Petacchi had taken a seat in one of the ordinary civil aircraft seats which had been fixed inside the roomy fuselage of the bomber at the back of the cockpit; from there he spent an hour watching the five RAF officers as they worked at the bank of instruments and dials in front of them. After an hour he was quite satisfied that when it came to his turn to fly the plane he would be able to dispense with all five men and manage on his own. Once he'd set the autopilot, all he'd have to do was stay awake and ensure that he remained at 32,000 feet, just above the transatlantic air-channel. He knew there would be a delicate moment when he had to turn off the East-West channel onto the North-South one for the Bahamas, but he'd been well-rehearsed in what to do, and he had all his moves neatly recorded in a notebook in his breast pocket. Of course, the landing would require very steady nerves, but for the sake of three million dollars, he was sure his nerves would be quite steady enough.

SPECTRE's No 4 had given him a small red-ringed cylinder containing a dose of cyanide which, he said, was guaranteed to put the five RAF men down within five minutes of them getting the first whiff. Petacchi was also provided with an oxygen cylinder and mask, so at the appointed time he carried the cylinder into the cockpit, gave the release valve three full turns, before easing it out of his pocket and hiding it out of sight of the unsuspecting RAF crew. He made a parting comment to the pilot, causing the navigator to laugh, then made his way back to his seat where he donned the mask and turned the control regulator on the oxygen cylinder to 100 per cent oxygen. He made himself comfortable and watched calmly as the five men died slowly and, as far as he could judge, painfully: the navigator was the first to be affected, just two minutes after Petacchi had set the cyanide to release he abruptly clutched at his throat, then fell forward with a horrible gargle. The radio operator started forward, dropping his earphones, but his second step brought him to his knees before he fell sideways and collapsed. The flight engineer and co-pilot clawed vaguely at each other before they writhed off their seats and fell to the floor. The pilot managed to grope upwards and grab the microphone above his head, speaking indistinctly before he got half way to his feet. He turned around slowly, his already dead eyes bulging horribly as he seemed to stare directly and accusingly at Petacchi, then he collapsed across the body of his co-pilot.

The Italian glanced at his watch and saw that four minutes had passed since he'd opened the cyanide cylinder. He decided to give them another minute, then he pulled some rubber gloves from his pocket, put them on, and pressing the oxygen mask tight against his face, made his way forward to shut off the cylinder's valve. He verified that the autopilot was still keeping the plane on course, then adjusted the cabin pressurisation in order to clear the poison from the air, before returning to his seat for another fifteen minutes.

In the end, he remained seated for twenty five minutes, although No 4 had told him fifteen would suffice, then he went forward, still using the oxygen mask, and began slowly pulling the bodies of the RAF crew back into the fuselage. Once the cockpit was clear he removed a small phial of crystals from his trouser pocket, took out the cork, and sprinkled the floor with them. Going down on his knees he watched the crystals closely, and when he saw they remained white, he pulled off the oxygen mask and took a small, cautious sniff. There was no smell, but when he moved into the cockpit to take over control of the plane, he left the mask on, just to be sure. He eased the plane down to the required 32,000 feet, then slightly north-west-by-west to get into the traffic lane, then checked the autopilot with the gyro. Everything was as it should be, and he was on course for a cool three million dollars. He smiled in satisfaction.

007-007-007

_Two days later, London_

Once Bond was on his way to New York, M turned her attention back to other matters; while this business with SPECTRE was undoubtedly a global crisis, other threats still remained to British security and if any of Britain's enemies got wind of the SPECTRE plot, they wouldn't hesitate to try to use it as a distraction from their own plans. She called in Tanner and Moneypenny in order to get updates from them, and spent the next couple of hours issuing instructions and making decisions about who they could safely ignore for the time being, and who still needed their attention.

"Thank you Bill, Eve," she said at the end of the meeting as the pair prepared to depart.

Moneypenny went out immediately but Tanner lingered, and she raised an eyebrow at him, wondering why he was still there.

"I wondered how much later you were planning to work tonight, ma'am?" His tone was respectful, but she could hear an anxious note in it too.

"As late as necessary, Mr Tanner," she said.

"Yes, ma'am." 

She noticed that he didn't look very happy at this response, but he didn't say anything further, just turned towards the door. "Did you have a reason for asking, Mr Tanner?" 

He angled his upper body back towards her, his files and tablet computer clutched against his chest. "I'm just a bit concerned about you, that's all, ma'am."

"Concerned about me?" She tilted her head towards him, inviting him to elaborate.

Tanner hunched his shoulders slightly. "It's only a few days since your husband's funeral, ma'am," he said quietly. "And only ten days since he passed away." He flicked a nervous glance at her, then returned to contemplating the carpet.

M sighed silently. "I appreciate your concern, Mr Tanner. However, I think I am the best judge of what I can do, and during this present crisis, if I need to stay all night, then I will do so."

"Yes, ma'am." Tanner seemed to accept this as a dismissal as he turned fully around and made his way out. 

M sighed heavily, and audibly, this time. She knew that he had her best interests at heart, because she knew just how much loyalty Tanner had for her, but at the same time, she had a job to do, and she couldn't afford to let anyone try to mollycoddle her, even if she was newly-widowed. She couldn't help thinking that at the moment she preferred to stay all night at the office if it was necessary (and the sofa in her office was more than sufficiently big enough to sleep on), than to go back to an empty flat which would never again feel quite like home.

007-007-007

_Nassau_

A girl in a bright blue MG two-seater shot down the slope of Parliament Street and at the junction with Bay Street executed a commendable racing change through third gear into second. Giving a quick glance to the right, she estimated correctly the speed of an approaching straw-hatted horse in the shafts of a rickety carriage with a gay fringe, and swerved out of the side street left-handed. The horse jerked its head back in indignation while the carriage driver stamped his foot up and down on the big Bermuda bell. It was a disadvantage of said bell that its beautiful tone couldn't possibly sound angry, as a car horn could, no matter how angrily the bell was sounded. The girl merely waved a sunburned hand before racing up the street in second gear and stopping outside The Pipe of Peace, the Dunhills of Nassau. 

Without bothering to open the low door of the MG, the girl swung one suntanned leg, then the other, over the side of the car, thereby showing her thighs beneath the pleated cream cotton skirt almost as far as her waist, and slipped down to the pavement.

The carriage driver reined in alongside the car and said in a mild voice, "Missy, you done almost shaved de whiskers off of Old Dreamy here. You wanna be more careful."

The girl put her hands on her hips and said sharply, "Old Dreamy yourself. Some of us have work to do. The pair of you should be put out to pasture instead of getting in everyone's way when they're about their legitimate business."

The old man opened his mouth, then appeared to think better of whatever protest he was going to make, and said instead, "Hokay, Missy, Hokay." He flicked at his horse, moving on and muttering under his breath to himself as he did so.

Twenty yards away, James Bond had witnessed the entire scene, and he found himself concurring with the carriage driver's parting sotto voce comment, "Dat's a fine piece of gal." He knew who the girl was, having made it his business to find out, and he now strode rapidly across the street and pushed through the striped sun-blinds of the tobacconist's into the blessedly cool and dark interior.

He found the girl arguing with one of the assistants as she demanded "a cigarette that's so disgusting that I shan't want to smoke it. Haven't you got a cigarette that stops people smoking?"

Bond spoke firmly to the girl, "You can choose between two kinds of cigarettes if you want to smoke less."

She gave him a sharp look. "And who might you be?"

"My name's Bond, James Bond. I'm the world's authority on giving up smoking. You're lucky I happen to be handy."

The girl looked him up and down. He was a man she hadn't seen in Nassau before. He was a couple of inches short of six feet tall, and in his late thirties. He had very short light brown hair and piercing blue eyes which were watching her inspecting him with a sardonic expression that was echoed in the curve of his lips. He was barely suntanned and she concluded he hadn't been on the island for very long. He wore a navy blue polo shirt with a cream coloured pair of slacks and had a pair of sunglasses in his left hand. She noticed that despite the heat he looked relatively cool and clean, and she found she was intrigued, despite his obvious attempt at a pick-up.

She decided to go along with his attempt, but not to make things too easy for him, so her tone was cold when said, "All right, tell me."

"There's only one way to stop smoking, and that's to stop and not start up again. If you want to _pretend_ to stop for a week or two, there's no point in trying to ration yourself – you'll just become a bore and think of nothing else. You'll snatch at a cigarette every time the hour strikes, or whatever the intervals may be that you've chosen. This will make you appear greedy, which is unattractive. The other way is to smoke cigarettes that are either too mild or too strong – the mild ones are probably best for your purposes." Bond spoke to the assistant, telling him which cigarettes to give the girl, then requested some tobacco leaf for himself. "Here, have these."

"Oh, but I can't. I mean – " 

Bond, however, had already paid for both items, and he took his change then strolled to the shop door, and she went with him. They paused outside, under the awning. The heat was tremendous, and the white light on the dusty street, the glare that was reflected back off the shop fronts opposite and from the dazzling limestone of the houses made them both reach for their sunglasses.

Bond looked down at the girl and said, "I'm afraid smoking goes with drinking. Are you going to give them both up, or one by one?"

She gave him a quizzical look. "This is very sudden, Mr – er – Bond. Well, all right. But somewhere out of the town. It's too hot here. Do you know The Wharf out beyond the Fort Montague?" He noticed her glancing quickly up and down the street before she continued, "It's not bad. Come on. I'll take you there. Mind the metal, though, it'll raise blisters."

Even the white leather of the upholstery burned through to Bond's thighs, but he wouldn't have minded if his trousers caught fire. This was his first look at the town and he'd already got hold of the girl, and he acknowledged to himself that she was a very fine girl at that. He caught hold of the leather strap on the dashboard as she did a sharp turn up Frederick Street and another one on to Shirley.

He settled himself sideways in the seat so that he could look at her properly, noting the broad-brimmed straw hat she wore at an impudent angle on her head. The pale blue tails of its ribbon streamed out behind her and he saw that the ribbon was printed in gold lettering with the words 'MY DISCO VOLANTE'. Her short-sleeved silk shirt had half-inch vertical stripes of pale-blue and white which, with the pleated cream skirt, reminded him of a sunny day at Henley Regatta to which he'd once gone as a boy. She wore neither rings nor jewellery, apart from a rather masculine-looking gold wrist watch with a black face, and he noted it was not a digital watch. Her white flat-heeled sandals matched her broad white belt and the sensible handbag that lay, together with a black and white striped silk scarf, between their seats.

Bond knew a fair bit about her having studied her immigration form, along with several dozen others, earlier that day. Her name was Dominetta Vitali and she'd been born in the Italian Tyrol. She gave her profession as 'actress' and was twenty-nine years old. She had arrived in Nassau six months ago aboard the _Disco_ , and it was understood by all that she was the mistress of the yacht owner's. He was an Italian named Emilio Largo; it was Largo who interested Bond, and who had sent him into the town to look around, leading to his fortuitous meeting with Dominetta.

The Commissioner of Police, Harling, and his colleague, Pitman, the Chief of Immigration and Customs, had both referred to Dominetta as an 'Italian tart', but Bond had already concluded they'd underestimated her: she had an independent streak to her nature, for while there was no doubt in his mind that she slept with men, he was confident that it was always on her terms, not theirs.

She drove her MG well, focusing entirely on the road ahead and on what she could see in her mirrors, and he could sense the pleasure she took in the feel of her car, the timing of her gear changes, and her use of the brakes. She not only didn't talk to Bond, she didn't seem to recall he was beside her, which meant he felt free to continue observing her. He rather thought that she would be passionate in bed, a fighter and biter until she melted into surrender to her lover, and he was not very surprised that he felt so little desire to prove his theory right. Since losing Vesper he had found it difficult to work up much enthusiasm for the seduction of women, and the fact that Camille had shown no interest in him in that way during the business with Greene, had only intensified his disinterest. He knew that if it became necessary, he would be able to perform as required, but so long as it was unnecessary he no longer cared to try.

Out at 'Gunpowder Wharf', he bought the girl a drink, and one for himself, and they talked, Bond trotting out his cover story about searching for a property now that the end of the season had arrived. He easily got her talking about both Largo and the yacht, and he flirted with her, as he knew she'd expect him to do. His ears pricked up when she told him that Largo was in the Bahamas on a treasure hunt and that he had a number of shareholders who'd put up the money to fund the hunt. She explained that the shareholders had all recently arrived on the Disco Volante, and that they seemed 'very dull and rich'.

"I'd always thought treasure hunting was romantic," she told him, "but these people are all terribly serious. They spend all their time with Largo, planning the hunt, I suppose, but they never do anything else. I've never seen any one of them out in the sun or bathing or diving. They're a bunch of stuffy businessmen, as far as I can see, although Largo's giving a party for them tonight at the Casino so perhaps they'll be less stuffy then."

Bond immediately resolved to be at the Casino so that he could get a good look at Largo's treasure hunters. If M's theory about SPECTRE was correct and, as yet, he saw no reason to doubt her, then these people could well be the terrorists for whom he was looking. It would certainly be wise to look them over, at any rate, and Bond still enjoyed playing at Casinos, despite the business with Le Chiffre in Montenegro. 

The girl, who insisted that he call her Domino, not Dominetta, agreed that he would see her there that evening, then she checked her watch before abruptly getting to her feet. "It's time I went. Thanks for the drink, and the advice about the cigarettes. Sorry I can't give you a lift back into town, I'm going the other way, but they'll get you a taxi to run you back."

He followed her out to her car, shook hands, then watched as the rear wheels spat gravel and sand into the air before the little blue MG whizzed out of the track and onto the main road.

Watching, Bond saw her pause at the junction before she turned right towards Nassau. He gave a cruel smile, said, "Bitch", then went back inside to pay the bill and request a taxi to be called for him. He didn't head back into town, however, but had the taxi drive him across to the other end of the island where the airport was located. His counterpart from the CIA was due in at 1.15pm, and Bond was going to meet him (or possibly her) there. He hoped the agent would be amiable to them working together – some American agents could get quite prickly at the idea. He wondered who Mr F Larkin might be, and felt a brief pang of regret for his friend Felix Leiter, with whom he'd worked in both Montenegro and, more briefly, La Paz. Perhaps F Larkin was a woman, he thought wistfully; he could already imagine M's disapproval if she heard that he was working with a female American agent. M had yet to realise that he'd lost interest in women, although he couldn't blame her for her failure to notice since this was his first big job since the Greene affair, and she'd been preoccupied with her husband's sudden, brief and, ultimately, terminal illness.

He recalled the evening when she'd got the news that Reginald Mansfield had been taken ill; Bond had been in her office, going over some reports with her, and she'd gone so white when she'd taken the phone call from the hospital that he'd been half way around her desk before she'd even finished speaking. He'd put a hand on her shoulder and to his surprise she hadn't brushed him away, but instead had put her hand over his for a long moment before asking him if he'd mind pouring her a drink. He'd poured her a Scotch, then crouched down beside her chair before asking what was wrong. After she had told him, he'd immediately insisted on driving her to the hospital and had stayed with her for over an hour before she'd sent him home once it became obvious that Reginald would be in overnight at least.

"Promise you'll ring me if there's anything you want from home?" Bond asked as he prepared to take his leave.

"I promise, James, now go on, go home."

He'd obeyed, albeit reluctantly, because he hadn't wanted to intrude but it hadn't been easy; he'd never seen M looking bewildered before, and it wasn't something he wanted to see ever again. Two days later he'd heard, via Eve Moneypenny, that Reginald Mansfield had passed away in the early hours of the morning, never having regained consciousness after the stroke that had sent him into the hospital. M had only returned to work two days ago, following her leave of absence, and he'd wondered if that was too soon, but he knew better than to say anything. If he'd expressed any doubts about her competence she would have given him short shrift, he knew.

The taxi pulled up outside the airport and Bond pulled himself from his reverie, paid the driver and went inside to find his CIA colleague.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

_Two days ago, approaching the American East Coast_

Settling himself comfortably into his seat, Petacchi swallowed a couple of stimulants and as he gently weaved the plane to and fro to get a feel for the controls, he thought about the future. He wanted to buy a car, a nice fast car such as a Maserati, although not in white or anything spectacular. Dark blue, perhaps, with a thin red line along the bodywork, something that looked quiet and respectable to suit his new quieter identity. It would be fun to run her at some of the trials and road races, perhaps even the Mexican '2000', but no – that would be too dangerous. Supposing he won and his picture got into the papers? He scowled. He would have to refrain from driving the car really fast except when he wanted to get a girl; they melted in a fast car, he knew. He wondered why. The sense of surrendering to the machine, to the man whose strong, capable hands were on the wheel, perhaps? He smiled as he recalled times when he'd driven a girl at 150 miles an hour, then turned into a wood after ten minutes, and he'd had to almost lift the girl out of the car, she'd be so weak with the excitement. And once he had the girl trembling in his arms, it didn't require much persuasion to get her to lie down with him.

He reluctantly dragged himself from his reverie, glanced at his watch, then the instruments, and saw that the coastline of America was now in view and the plane was dead on course. In a few minutes he would have to ease the plane out of the East-West channel and turn south. Pulling out his notebook, he checked the instructions he'd been given: Watch for the lights of Grand Bahama to port and Palm Beach to starboard. Be ready to pick up the navigational aids from No 1's yacht – dot-dot-dash, dot-dot-dash, jettison fuel, lose height to around 1,000 feet for the last quarter of an hour, kill speed with the air brakes, and lose more height. Watch out for the flashing red beacon and prepare for the final approach. Flaps down only at the check altitude with about 140 knots indicated. Depth of water will be forty feet. You'll have plenty of time to get out of the escape hatch, and once you do, you'll be taken aboard No 1's yacht. The next morning there's a Bahamas Airways flight to Miami at 8.30am, then Lufthansa or KLM onwards. No 1 will give you the money in 1,000-dollar bills or Travellers Cheques. He will have both available, together with a passport in the name of Enrico Valli, Company Director.

Petacchi checked his course, position and speed, noting that there was only one more hour to go. It was 3am in London and 9pm in Nassau, and there was a full moon coming up which turned the carpet of clouds 10,000 feet below into a snowfield. He doused the collision lights on the fuselage and wing tips, then checked the fuel: 2,000 gallons, including the reserve tanks. He pulled the release valve on the reserve tanks, losing 1,000 gallons; he would only need 500 gallons for the last four hundred miles. The loss of weight meant the plane slowly began to gain height, so he corrected it back down to 32,000 feet. With only twenty minutes to go, it was time to begin the long descent.

No 1's beacon was soon coming in loud and clear, then he saw the flashing red light five miles dead ahead. Petacchi inched the nose of the bomber down and his fingers played across the instruments as delicately as if they were the erotic trigger points on a woman's body. Five hundred feet, four hundred, three, two – there was the pale shape of the yacht, its lights doused. He was ready to switch off the moment he was down, and when the belly of the plane gave a jolt, sending the nose back up, he quickly switched off all his instruments, then unclamped his fingers and gazed dazedly out of the window at the foaming waves.

He'd done it! By God, he'd done it! Now for the applause, and the rewards!

The plane settled slowly and he heard a hiss of steam from the submerging jets. As Petacchi went through into the fuselage, water swirled around his feet, and he heard the sound of tearing metal as the tail section broke open. He broke the Perspex cover on the handle of the port side emergency exit, jerked the handle down and watched as the door fell outwards. Stepping through, he walked out along the wing and smiled as a big jolly boat came up alongside the plane. There were six men in it, and Petacchi waved, calling a delighted greeting. One of the men raised a hand in reply, and he noted how serious, how business-like, all of them looked. He swallowed down his triumph and made his own expression suitably grave. 

The boat reached the wing, and one man climbed out and up onto the wing, walking towards Petacchi. He was a short, thickset individual with a very direct gaze, which he kept trained on the Italian. He walked carefully, his knees slightly bent to keep his balance, and his feet spread well apart, and Petacchi couldn't help admiring how easily he seemed to move. 

"Good evening, good evening. I am delivering one plane in good condition," the pilot said happily. "Please sign here." He held out his hand and the man from the jolly boat took the hand in a strong grasp, braced himself, then pulled sharply. The Italian's head was flung back by the quick jerk and he was looking up at the moon as a stiletto flashed up and under the offered chin, through the roof of the mouth, and into the brain. Petacchi knew nothing except a momentary surprise, a searing pain, then an explosion of brilliant light.

The killer held the knife in place for a long moment, the back of his hand brushing the pilot's stubbled chin, before he lowered the body down onto the wing and withdrew his weapon. He carefully rinsed the blade in the sea, wiped it on Petacchi's back, then sheathed it, before he hauled the corpse along the wing and thrust it under water beside the escape hatch.

The killer waded back along the wing, which was now completely awash, and raised a thumb in a laconic gesture. Four of the other men in the waiting boat now wore aqualungs, and they each made a last adjustment to their mouthpieces before clumsily heaving themselves over the side of the boat, which rocked back and forth beside the plane. The killer climbed back into the boat as the men sank down under the water, and the mechanic who had remained in the boat hefted up an underwater searchlight, manoeuvring it over the side and lowering into the sea on a cable. Switching on the light, he illuminated the sinking plane, then he slipped the idling engine into gear and backed away slowly, paying out the light's cable as he went. Once he was out of range of the suction of the sinking plane he stopped and switched off his engine, then took a packet of cigarettes from the pocket of his overalls. He took one for himself, then offered the packet to the killer, who took one, broke it in half, and put one half behind his ear before lighting the second half. The killer was a man who rigidly controlled his weaknesses.

007-007-007

_Nassau Airport, two days later_

Bond looked around the airport, hoping that he wasn't about to be approached by a muscle-bound ex-college man with a crew-cut and the desire to show off the competence of the CIA when compared to MI6. 

When Bond had arrived at the airport at 7am that morning he had been met by the Governor's aide-de-camp, an error of security which he'd noted and intended to warn the Governor about, before being taken to his hotel. He'd showered, changed into something more suitable for the climate than his usual suit, then eaten a touristy breakfast on his balcony overlooking the beach. He'd been up at Government House by nine o'clock for his meeting with the deputy Governor, the Commissioner of Police, and the Chief of Immigration and Customs. The meeting was much as he'd anticipated, the urgent TOP SECRET messages from Six having made little impact on these men who, while promising their cooperation in Bond's mission, clearly believed that M had made a mistake and that this nonsense must not be allowed to get in the way of their normal routines, nor interfere with the happiness and comfort of the tourists.

The Deputy Governor, Roddick, a ginger moustached man with old fashioned pince-nez, had explained their point of view to Bond in the polite but bored tones of a man who had no intention of getting excited about anything. "You see, Mr Bond, in our opinion – and we have most carefully debated all the possibilities, all the, er, angles, as our American friends would say – it is inconceivable that a large, four-engined plane could have been hidden anywhere within the confines of the Colony. The only airstrip capable of taking such a plane – am I right, Harling? – is here in Nassau. So far as a landing on the sea is concerned, a, er, ditching I think they call it, we have been in radio contact with the Administrators on all the larger outer islands, and the replies are all negative. The radar people at the meteorological station – "

Bond was obliged to interrupt at this point. "Might I ask if the radar screen is manned around the clock? My impression is that the airport is very busy during the day, but that there is very little traffic at night. Would it be possible that the radar is not so closely watched at night?" He knew, of course, that such a possibility was very high.

The Commissioner of Police, a pleasant, very military looking man in his forties, with glittering silver buttons and insignia on his dark blue uniform, said judiciously, "I think Mr Bond has a point there, sir. The Airport commandant admits that things do slacken off a bit when there's nothing scheduled. He hasn't got that many staff, and of course most of them are locals, sir. Good men, but obviously not up to Heathrow's standards. And the radar at the met. station is mostly used for shipping, so it has a low horizon and range."

"Quite, quite." The Deputy Governor clearly didn't want to be dragged into a discussion about Nassauvian workers, or the merits of their radar sets. "There's certainly a point there. No doubt Mr Bond will be making his own enquiries. Now, there was a request from the Secretary of State – " the title was spoken sonorously, and Bond suppressed a twitch of irritation at the man's obvious reverence for said Secretary of State, for whom he had little time, "for details and comments on recent arrivals on the island, suspicious characters, and so on. Mr Pitman?"

The Chief of Immigration and Customs had an ingratiating manner which Bond found trying, although he hid this reaction as he'd hid his response to Roddick. 

"Nothing out of the ordinary, sir," Pitman said with a pleasant smile. "The usual mixture of tourists, businessmen, and local people coming home. We were asked to have details for the last two weeks." He patted the briefcase resting on his lap. "I have all the immigration forms here, for Mr Bond to go through with me." He flicked a glance at the silent agent, and observed, "All the big hotels have house detectives, so I could probably get further details on any particular name. All the passports were checked in the normal manner and there were no irregularities, nor were any of these people on our Wanted Lists."

"Might I ask a question?" 

Roddick nodded at Bond. "Of course. Of course. Anything you like. We're all here to help."

"I'm looking for a group of people, probably ten or more. They probably stick together a good deal. There may be as many as twenty or thirty. I imagine they're all, or mostly, Europeans, and that they have a ship or a plane. They may have been here for months, or only a few days. I understand that you have plenty of convention groups coming to Nassau – tourists associations, sales people, religious groups, etc. Apparently they book a block of rooms in some hotel, and hold meetings and so on, for a week. Is there anything like that going on at present?" 

"Mr Pitman?"

"We've only had a couple of those groups in the last two weeks," Pitman said. "But they've already left, and they were all very respectable."

"That's rather my point, Mr Pitman," Bond said, suppressing annoyance at the man's lack of percipience. "The people I'm looking for, the ones who may have arranged to steal this plan, will certainly take the trouble to appear very respectable. We're not looking for a bunch of flashy crooks. So is there a group like that on the island anywhere?"

"Well," Pitman said with a broad smile, "there is the annual treasure hunt going on."

Roddick barked out a deprecating laugh. "Now steady on, Mr Pitman. Surely we don't want them to get mixed up in all this, or heaven knows where we'll end up. I can't believe Mr Bond wants to waste his time on a group of rich beachcombers."

Harling spoke up, his tone doubtful, "The only thing is, sir, that they do have both a yacht and a small plane. And I've heard that a lot of the shareholders have arrived lately. Those points tally with what Mr Bond's asking about, and this Mr Largo's respectable enough, I think, for Mr Bond's requirements. He and his group have never once given us any trouble, and it's unusual not to have even one case of drunkenness in a ship's crew during a six month stay."

Bond had pounced on this information with a sense of 'now we're getting somewhere', and had spent two hours in the Customs building and the Commissioner's office before he walked into town to see if he could get a look at Largo or any members of his group, or pick up on some gossip. Instead he'd found Domino Vitali, who'd unintentionally persuaded him that he was on the right track.

Bond's musings were interrupted at this point by a quiet voice speaking in his ear, "007? Meet No 000."

He swung around and was startled, then overjoyed, to see the familiar dark-skinned features of Felix Leiter, his previous contact in the CIA. "Well, well," he said, smiling broadly. "I didn't know I should expect you. Did you expect me?"

Leiter gave him an amused look. "Of course. The CIA knows all, James, you should know that."

Bond snorted a laugh, then shook hands with his friend, and led the way outside. They put Leiter's cases in the back of a rental car, for which the American signed, then climbed in, Bond driving, and headed towards the hotel. As he drove, Bond filled Leiter in on the exact details of their mission, and the CIA agent listened in silence. 007 recalled that Leiter had a rather taciturn nature, which was probably why he'd liked him so much at their first meeting at the Casino in Montenegro. 

At the hotel they had a drink together, then lunch, while they discussed what Bond had learned that morning about Largo and his 'treasure hunt'. Leiter agreed with him that this group seemed the most likely to fit with M's theory about SPECTRE, especially since Bond had discovered that Largo's group consisted of trios of six different nationalities: Italian, German, French, Russian, Turkish and Serbo-Croatian.

"So you're planning on going to the Casino tonight, to see Largo and his party?" Leiter asked when Bond paused to order some coffee and further Martinis.

"Yep. Will you come?"

"You bet," Leiter answered with a grin.

"Good."

007-007-007 

_London_

While Bond and Leiter were making plans in Nassau, M was making her report to the Operation _Thunderball_ War Room. Of Bond's activities she said nothing for the time being, concentrating instead on the work being done by her other agents and operatives throughout Russia, Eastern Europe, and Asia.

As she was leaving the War Room she was joined by Gareth Mallory, the newest member of the ISC, who asked her if he might have a word. She raised an eyebrow, before consenting, and let him lead her along the corridor to his own office.

"Drink?" he asked, gesturing her to a chair.

"Please."

"What will you have?" He glanced her way and quirked the corners of his mouth. "I don't see you as much of a sherry drinker, M."

"I'm not," she agreed. "I'll have a Scotch, please."

Mallory nodded, then busied himself at the drinks tray in the corner. M waited with some curiosity to see what he wanted; they had been formally introduced a few months ago, but she'd had very little contact with him in the interval. She recalled what she knew of him, which was probably more than he realised she knew: a former Lieutenant Colonel with the Hereford Regiment, he'd served for quite some time in Northern Ireland, and at one time he'd been held hostage for three months by the IRA. As a result of this he'd been decorated, then retired from the Army and brought into the ISC. She knew that his superiors had been concerned about his mental state after he'd escaped from the IRA, since he'd been tortured and left quite badly wounded, which was why they'd retired him and got him involved in the Intelligence and Security Committee.

"Here you are." Mallory passed her a glass and she saw he'd given her a double shot, not a single. 

"Thank you." She took a small swallow, then looked at the other man over the rim of her glass, waiting for him to make his move.

"I noticed that when you were giving your report on what your team is doing during this current crisis you omitted to mention what one of your agents is doing." He sat across from her in the room's only other chair.

"Oh?" M kept her tone noncommittal. 

"Yes. 007 – James Bond. Where is he?"

M eyed him thoughtfully. "In the Bahamas," she said after a long moment.

Mallory blinked. "Why?"

M raised both eyebrows this time. "He's searching for the missing plane," she said in a patient, explaining-to-a-two-year-old tone.

"But why the Bahamas?" persisted Mallory.

M sighed. "I theorised that if SPECTRE is European, which seems probable, then they would be less likely to target establishments in Europe with the stolen bombs. It seemed to me they'd be more likely to pick American targets, in part because there are far more targets worth the price of their ransom in America than in Europe, and also because the Americans are more likely to be intimidated by the threat of atomic weapons. They still haven't got over their guilt for the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. So I sent Bond to the place I thought the plane was probably hidden for ease of targeting American establishments." She stared hard at him. "Bond is by far my best agent, and if anyone can find and stop this group, he's the man to do so."

Mallory frowned. "Isn't he something of a loose canon? He went off grid during that business with Dominic Greene, killed Gareth Haines' bodyguard, by all accounts."

M stiffened. "Haines' bodyguard was killed by one of Greene's thugs. Bond dropped him off a roof, but he was still alive when he hit Greene's car, and it was on Greene's instructions that the man was killed."

Mallory gave her a sceptical look, but didn't argue the point with her. "So you trust Bond to find the plane, and the bombs, and deal with SPECTRE for us?"

"I do," M said, downing the last of her drink. She got to her feet. "If that's all, Mr Mallory, I'll be going."

He'd got to his feet when she did, and although he was frowning again, he didn't offer any objection to her departure. 

Once outside and safely out of earshot, M sighed heavily, then rubbed a hand over her face. She hoped that her faith in Bond was going to be justified sooner rather than later. She checked her watch, working out what time it was in Nassau, which was six hours behind London, and hoped there would be a preliminary report from Bond waiting for her when she got back to her office.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

_Thirty-six hours ago, the Bahamas_

Aboard the _Disco Volante_ , SPECTRE's No 2, Emilio Largo, put down his night glasses, took out a handkerchief and dabbed gently at his temples and forehead. He was relieved that the plane had arrived safely; it had been half an hour late, and those thirty minutes had been a crowded half hour of anxiety that something somewhere might have gone wrong. Nothing had, fortunately, and Vargas had done a good quick job on the Italian pilot – what was his name? – and they were now running only fifteen minutes behind schedule. If the recovery group weren't forced to use oxy-acetylene cutters to remove the bombs from the plane, they would soon make up that delay. He knew, however, that it wouldn't do to get complacent and expect there to be no hitches at all. And there was another eight hours of darkness ahead of them, so they had sufficient time. Calm, method, efficiency, he reminded himself in a silent mantra as he ducked down off the bridge, and went into the communications cabin, which stank of sweat and tension.

He checked with the communications officer that there had been no reports of a low-flying plane, or a possible crash into the sea off Bimini, then requested that they put him through to No 2. At the thumbs up signal from No 7, No 1 spoke into his headset, "No 1 speaking."

"No 2 listening," replied a hollow-sounding voice, which No 1 recognised as belonging to Ernst Stavro Blofeld, the mastermind behind the creation of SPECTRE and this most audacious plot.

"Successful. Ten fifteen. Next phase ten forty-five. Continuing. Over."

"Thank you. Out." The connection died after a mere forty-five seconds of communication, too short, No 1 believed, for anyone to be able to trace the origins of the conversation. As he made his way through the big stateroom and down into the hold, No 1 found himself thinking of No 2 again. 

All the members of SPECTRE respected Blofeld, despite his somewhat unprepossessing appearance: his large face was white and bland, topped by a square, wiry black crew-cut. His jawline was authoritative and determined, and his mouth was thin, with dark lips that were nearly always compressed into a judgemental expression. It was his eyes, however, which commanded the respect he was afforded by his subordinates: his irises were deep black pools which were totally surrounded by very clear whites and enhanced by long silken black eyelashes which ought to have belonged to a woman. But no one was fooled by the doll-like nature of Blofeld's eyes, because his gaze seemed to possess the ability to suck the eyes out of the head of anyone whom he chose to probe.

In addition to his fearsome gaze, Blofeld was possessed of immense organisational skills, a formidable intelligence, and a ruthlessness that either horrified or enamoured others; all of these he had put to good use in the past thirty years, always staying one step ahead of danger, and always ensuring that he made a good profit on his activities.

The eighteen men and two women who made up SPECTRE were all within the thirty-to-forty age group, were all extremely fit and healthy, and – apart from two of them – had the quick, hard, predatory gazes of hawks and wolves. The two who were different were both scientists, with a scientist's other-worldly eyes: Kotze was an East German physicist who'd defected to the West before the end of the Cold War, while Maslov was an electronics expert from Poland. The remaining eighteen were from six national groups, and within those groups, six of the world's greatest criminal and terrorist organisations. The greatest advantage these eighteen men and women had wasn't their expertise in conspiracy, or secret action and communication, or their ability to keep silence; rather it was that every one of them had a solid cover: they each possessed a valid passport with up-to-date visas, and a completely clean sheet with Interpol and their respective national police forces. That factor alone, the factor of each one's cleanness despite a lifetime in big crime, was Blofeld's highest qualification for membership of SPECTRE. 

No 1 shook himself out of his reverie, reminding himself that there was still a lot of work to be done. He found the four men of B team waiting in the hold, their aqualungs besides them. They were sitting smoking and talking in low voices beside the wide underwater hatch that lay just above the keel of the yacht. The hatch was open and moonlight reflected in off the white sand that lay six feet beneath the ship. Stacked on the grating beside the waiting men was a thick pile of tarpaulin painted a very pale café-au-lait colour marked with occasional irregular splotches of brown and dark green.

No 1 spoke the men. "All is going very well. The recovery team is at work. It should not be long now. How about the chariot and the sled?"

One of the men jerked his thumb at the hatch. "They're down there. Outside on the sand. To speed things up."

"Good." No 1 nodded at a crane-like contraption fastened to a bulkhead above the hold.  
"The derrick took the strain all right?"

"That chain could handle twice the weight."

"The pumps?"

"All in order. They will clear the hold in seven minutes."

"Good. Well, take it easy. It's going to be a long night." No 1 climbed the iron ladder out of the hold and went up on deck. His night glasses were unnecessary. Two hundred yards away to starboard the sea was empty except for the jolly boat which rode at anchor above a golden submarine glow. The red marker light had been taken in aboard the boat. The rattle of the little generator powering the big searchlight was loud in the stillness and No 1 knew the sound would carry far on a night as still as this, but accumulators would have been too bulky, and might have run down before the work was complete. The generator was a calculated risk, and a small one at that, as No 2 had explained when he'd detailed this part of the plan to No 1. After all, the nearest island was five miles away, and completely uninhabited – the yacht had stopped and searched it on the way to the rendezvous point. Everything that could be done, had been done – every precaution had been taken. There was nothing to worry about except the next step. No 1 went through the hatch into the enclosed bridge and bent over the lighted chart table.

007-007-007

_Two days later, Nassau_

"Tell you what we should do," Bond said as Leiter finished showing him the portable Geiger counter he'd brought from America, which had been cleverly disguised to look like a digital camera.

"What?" asked Leiter, eyebrows raised. 

"We should go and beard friend Largo in his den. Get ourselves a good look at that yacht of his." He raised an eyebrow at his friend enquiringly, and a slow smile split the other man's face.

"Good idea," he said enthusiastically. He tapped his gadget. "We'll take this along, shall we? See if it picks up anything."

Bond nodded, and the two men made their way downstairs and out to the pier where they were able to hire the hotel launch to take them out for a spin. 

They ran out westwards, past Silver Cay, Long Cay and Balmoral Island, and round Delaporte Point. Five miles further down the coast, encrusted with the glittering seashore properties which the boatman said cost at least £1000 per foot of beach frontage, they rounded Old Fort Point and came upon the gleaming white and dark blue ship lying with two anchors out in deep water just outside the reef. Leiter whistled his appreciation, saying in an awestruck voice, "Boy, is that a piece of boat! I'd sure like to have one of those to play with in my bath."

Bond smiled as he said, "She's Italian. She's got a hydrofoil under the hull and when she gets going, you let can let this sort of skid down, and she rises up and practically flies along. Only the screws and a few feet of the stern stay in the water. The Police Commissioner says she can do 50 knots in calm water. She's only good for inshore work, of course, but they can carry upwards of a hundred passengers when they're designed for fast ferry work. Apparently this one's been built to take forty people, and the rest of the space is taken up with the owner's quarters and cargo space. Must have cost a small fortune to build."

The boatman broke in, "They say on Bay Street that she goin' go after the treasure these next few days or so. All the people that own a share in the gold come in a few days ago. Then she spen' one whole night doin' a final recce. They say is down Exhuma way, or over by Watlings Island. Guess you folks know that's where Columbus made him first landfall on this side of the Atlantic. Around fourteen ninety somethin'. But could be anywhere down there. They's always been talk of treasure down 'mongst the Ragged Islands – even as far as Crooked Island. Fact is she sail out southward. Hear her myself, right until her engines died away. East by south-east I'da say." The boatman spat discreetly over the side. "Must be plenty heap of treasure with the cost of that ship and all the money they throwing 'way. Every time she go to hoiling wharf they say the bill's sev'ral hundred pound."

Bond casually asked, "Which night was it they did the final recce?"

"Night after she hoiled. That'd be two nights ago. Sail round six."

Bond exchanged a glance with Leiter and knew the other man was thinking the same thing he was: two nights ago was when the bomber had gone missing. If Largo was part of SPECTRE then he would have needed to refuel the boat before being out all night to retrieve the bombs.

The blank portholes of the ship watched their approach, as did a sailor polishing the brass around the curve of the enclosed dome that was the bridge. As they got closer he stepped through the hatch onto the bridge and Bond saw him speaking into a mouthpiece. A tall man dressed in white linen trousers and a very wide mesh singlet came out on deck and observed them through binoculars. He called something to the sailor, who came and stood at the top of the ladder down the starboard side. When their launch came alongside, the man cupped his hands around his mouth and called down, "What is your business please? Have you an appointment?"

Bond called back, "It's Mr Bond, Mr James Bond. From New York. I have my attorney here. I have an enquiry to make about Palmyra, Mr Largo's property."

"One moment please." The sailor disappeared from view, then returned accompanied by the man in the white trousers and singlet. Bond recognised him from the police description: Emilio Largo. He called down in a cheerful tone, "Come aboard, come aboard." He gestured for the sailor to go down and help fend off the launch, and Bond and Leiter climbed out and went up the ladder.

Largo was a big, obviously handsome man of about forty. He was a Roman, and looked like one, not from modern Rome, but from the Rome of ancient coins and statues. The long, large face was sunburned a deep mahogany brown and the light glinted off the strong, rather hooked nose and the clean-cut lantern jaw that had been meticulously shaved before he started out that morning. In contrast to the hard, slow-moving brown eyes, the mouth, with its thick, rather down-curled lips, belonged more properly to a satyr. Ears that, from dead front, looked almost pointed, added to an animalness that Bond thought most women would probably find devastating. The only weakness in this fine centurion face lay in the overlong sideburns and the too-carefully-waved black hair that glistened brightly with pomade in the sunlight. It looked painted onto his skull. There was no fat on the big-boned frame – Largo had fought for Italy in the Olympic foils, was almost an Olympic-class swimmer with a very fast crawl, and only a month before had won the senior class in the Nassau water-skiing championships – Bond saw muscles which were rock hard bulging under the singlet and trousers. An aid to his athletic prowess were his hands which were almost twice the normal size, even for a man of his stature.

Largo was an adventurer, a predator on the herd. Two hundred years ago he would have been a pirate – not one of the jolly ones from story books, but a man like Blackbeard, a bloodstained cut-throat who scythed his way through people towards the gold. But Blackbeard had been too much of a bully and a roughneck, and wherever he went in the world, he had left behind a trail of destruction. Largo was different; behind his actions there was a cool brain and an exquisite finesse that had always saved him from the herd's revenge – from his debut as head of a gang in Naples, through five lucrative years smuggling from Tangier, another five masterminding a wave of big jewel robberies on the French Riviera, down to his last five with SPECTRE – he always got away with it, he had always been that essential one step ahead that would have been hidden from lesser men. He was the epitome of the gentleman crook – a man of the world, a great womaniser, a high liver, with an entrée into the highest echelons of society on four continents. He also benefited from having no wife, a spotless police record, nerves of steel, a heart of ice, and the ruthlessness of a Himmler. He was the perfect man for SPECTRE, and the perfect man, rich Nassau playboy and all, to be Supreme Commander of Blofeld's Plan Omega.

Bond, of course, knew nothing of this, since Largo's record was spotless, although he hoped Six had begun looking into the man's background since he'd passed on Largo's name. He took Largo's hand when it was offered once they reached the deck. 

"My name is Emilio Largo. Mr Bond? And – ?" He looked hard at Leiter.

"Mr Larkin, my attorney from New York. Actually I'm English, but I have property in America." They shook hands. "I'm sorry to bother you, Mr Largo, but it's about Palmyra, the property I believe you rent from Mr Bryce."

"Ah, yes, of course." The beautiful teeth gleamed warmth and welcome at them. "Come on down to the stateroom, gentlemen. I'm sorry I am not properly dressed to receive you." The big brown hands caressed his thighs, the wide mouth turned down in deprecation. "My visitors usually announce themselves on the ship-to-shore radio. But if you will forgive the informality – " Largo allowed the phrase to tail off, and ushered them through a low hatch, down a few aluminium steps, and into the main cabin. The rubber-lined hatch hissed closed behind them.

It was a large mahogany panelled cabin with a deep, wine-red carpet and comfortable dark blue leather chairs. The sun shone through the slats of Venetian blinds set over the broad square ports, and added a welcome brightness to what was otherwise a rather sombre and masculine room. There was a long table down the centre, littered with papers and charts, and glass fronted cabinets along the walls which contained a variety of fishing gear, weaponry, and diving gear, including a black rubber underwater diving suit and aqualung suspended, like a skeleton in a doctor's room, from a hook in the corner of one of the cabinets. The cabin was air-conditioned, and deliciously cool; Bond felt his sticky shirt unpeeling itself from his damp skin.

"Please take a chair, gentlemen," Largo said affably as he carelessly brushed aside the charts and papers on the table as if they had no importance to him. "Cigarettes?" He placed a large silver box on the table between them. "And what can I get you to drink? Something cool and not too strong, perhaps?" He moved over to a loaded sideboard as he spoke. "Planter's Punch? Gin and tonic? Or there are various beers. You must have had a long hot journey in that open launch. I would have sent my boat for you if I'd known."

Bond asked for a plain tonic, and Leiter requested the same, both of them preferring to keep a clear head.

"I'm very sorry to barge in like this, Mr Largo. I had no idea I could have got you on the telephone. We just got in this morning and as I've only got a few days here, I have to get a move on. The point is, I'm looking for a property down here."

"Oh yes?" Largo brought two glasses and bottles of tonic over to the table and sat down so that they formed a triangle. "What a good idea. Wonderful place. I've been here for six months and already I'd like to stay forever. But the prices they're asking – " He threw up his hands. "These Bay Street pirates. And the millionaires are even worse. But you're wise to come at the end of the season. Perhaps some of the owners will be disappointed not to have sold. Perhaps they will not open their mouths so wide."

"That's what I thought," Bond said, sitting comfortably back in his chair and taking a swallow of his drink. "Or rather, what my lawyer, Mr Larkin, advised." Leiter, beside him, shook his head pessimistically. "He made some enquiries and he frankly advised me that real estate values here have gone completely mad." Bond turned politely towards Leiter to bring him into the conversation. "Isn't that so?"

"Daft, Mr Largo, quite daft. Worse even than Florida. Out of this world. I wouldn't advise any client of mine to invest at such prices."

"Quite so." It was obvious to Bond that Largo didn't want to get drawn too deeply into these matters. "You mentioned something about Palmyra. Is there anything I can do to help you in that respect?"

Bond said, "I understand you have a lease of the property, Mr Largo. And there's some talk, mere gossip, of course, that you may be leaving the house fairly soon." He gave a small apologetic shrug. "You know what these Islanders are like for gossiping. But Palmyra sounds more or less just what I'm looking for, and I gather the owner, an Englishman named Bryce, might sell if he got the right price. What I was going to ask you was whether you might allow us to drive out and take a look at the place, when you're not there of course," Bond added. "Any time that might suit you would be convenient for me."

Largo flashed his teeth in a warm smile and spread his hands. "But of course, of course, my dear fellow. Whenever you wish. There is no one in residence but my niece and a few servants, and she is out most of the time. Please, just call her up on the telephone. I shall tell her that you will be doing so. It is indeed a charming property – so imaginative. A beautiful piece of design. If only all rich men had such good taste."

Bond got to his feet and Leiter followed him. "Well that's extraordinarily kind of you, Mr Largo. And now we'll leave you in peace. Perhaps we shall meet again in the town some time. You must come and have lunch. But – " Bond poured admiration and flattery into his voice, "with a yacht like this, I don't suppose you ever want to come ashore."

Largo grinned in pleasure. "Well, Mr Bond, it's a wonderful design for coastal waters. She only draws four feet when the hydrofoil is operating."

"I suppose accommodation's a problem, though?" Bond said guilelessly. 

He knew that it is a weakness of nearly all men to love their material possessions, and he banked on Largo wanting to boast about his yacht. He knew he'd guessed right when the Italian immediately answered with a trace of pricked vanity, "No, no. I think you'll find that is not so. Can you spare five minutes? We are rather crowded at the moment. You have heard, no doubt, of our treasure hunt?" 

He gave them a sharp glance, as would a man who expects to be ridiculed. "But we will not discuss that now. No doubt you do not believe in these things. But my associates in the business are all on board. Together with the crew, there are forty of us. You will see we are not cramped. You would like?" He gestured to the door in the rear of the stateroom.

Felix Leiter showed reluctance. "You know, Mr Bond, that we have that meeting with Mr Harold Christie at five o'clock."

Bond waved the objection aside. "Mr Christie is a charming man. I know he won't mind if we are a few minutes late. I'd love to see over the ship if you're sure you can spare the time, Mr Largo."

Largo said, "Come. It will not take more than a few minutes. The excellent Mr Christie is a friend of mine. He will understand." He went to the door and held it open.

Bond had been expecting such politeness and knew it would interfere with Leiter's apparatus, so he said firmly, "Please go first, Mr Largo. You will be able to tell us when to duck our heads."

With more affability, Largo led the way.

007-007-007

_Later that night, London_

After leaving Mallory's office, M asked her driver to take her to her favourite French restaurant where she had a light supper before she returned to the office. Once there she checked her email account and was relieved to see that there was one waiting from Bond's secure account. She opened it quickly and scanned through the contents, then leaned back in her chair and read it more slowly, taking in the details of Bond's various meetings in Nassau, and his intention to go to the Casino that night to see if he could spot any of Largo's party. She fired an email off to the Records department to request any information that they could find on Dominetta Vitali, who might well prove a weak point in Largo's defences. Because Bond's email wasn't part of his official report he had used a rather more informal tone in his account, and she was intrigued to note that in describing Dominetta and the set-up with Largo, Bond did not sound the least bit interested in the girl, even though, by his own account, she was very pretty. M found herself wondering how much the loss of Vesper Lynd was still affecting him; Dr Hall had been unable to get much out of 007 during his last session with the agent, and M had not had the opportunity to speak with him herself. She knew that he often opened up to her more than he did to the Service's resident psychologist, with whom he disliked talking, and she'd been planning to talk to him herself, but her husband's sudden passing had prevented that conversation from taking place.

She rubbed a hand over her face, then sat forward to begin her reply to Bond – she would incorporate whatever information the Records Department could give her about Ms Vitali in a later email. At this time of night there was only a duty officer down there and she doubted whomever it was would be able to dig up much before morning.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

_Thirty six hours ago, the Bahamas_

Largo was relieved when one of the crew knocked on the hatch and came in to tell him that the team from the jolly boat had signalled to request the chariot and sled.

"Thank you." In the heat and excitement of an operation, Largo always created a sense of calm, no matter how much was at stake, no matter the dangers, or the need for speed and quick decisions, he made a fetish of calm, of the pause. This was an act of will to which he had long ago trained himself, and he had found it had an extraordinary effect on his accomplices, it tied them to him, and evoked their loyalty and obedience more than any other factor in leadership. That he, a clever and cunning man, should show unconcern at particularly bad, or, as in this case, particularly good news, meant that he'd already known that what had happened would happen. With Largo, consequences were foreseen, which meant one could depend on him because he never lost balance. So now, on hearing this news, he deliberately picked up his dividers and made a trace, an imaginary trace, on the chart before him, simply for the sake of the crew member. Then he put down the dividers and strolled unhurriedly out of the air-conditioned cabin into the warm night.

A tiny worm of underwater light was creeping out towards the jolly boat. It was a two-person underwater chariot and was towing an underwater sled, a sharp-prowed tray with negative buoyancy used for the recovery and transport of heavy objects under the sea. The worm of light merged with the luminescence from the searchlight and, a few minutes later, re-emerged on its way back to the _Disco Volante_. It would have been perfectly natural for Largo to have gone down to the hold in order to witness the arrival of the two atomic weapons, but characteristically he did nothing of the sort. In due course the little headlight reappeared, going back over its previous course. Now the sled would be loaded with the huge tarpaulin, camouflaged to merge in with just this piece of underwater terrain with its white sand and patches of coral outcrop, the tarpaulin would be spread out in order to cover every inch of the wrecked plane, then pegged all round with corkscrew iron stanchions which could not be shifted by the heaviest surface storm or groundswell. In his imagination, Largo saw every move of the eight men who would now be working far below the surface on the reality for which there had been so much preparation, so many training exercises. He marvelled at the effort, the incredible ingenuity, that had gone into Plan Omega. Now all their months of preparation, of sweat and blood and tears, were being repaid.

There came a bright blink of light on the surface of the water not far from the jolly boat – then another, and another. Largo knew that this was the men resurfacing, the moonlight catching the glass of their aqualung masks as they did so. They swam to the boat and heaved themselves aboard, the mechanic and the killer helping them to remove their gear. Then the underwater light was switched off and hauled aboard, and moments later the jolly boat was making its way back to the yacht and the waiting arms of the derricks. Once the couplings were made firm, the boat, complete with its passengers, was swung up and inboard accompanied by the shrill electric whine of the crane.

The captain came to stand at Largo's side. He was a large, sullen, raw-boned man who had been drummed out of the Canadian Navy for drunkenness and insubordination. He'd been Largo's slave ever since the latter had called him into the stateroom one day and broken a chair over his head after he'd questioned one of Largo's commands. That was the kind of discipline the captain understood. Now he said quietly, "The hold's clear. Okay to sail?"

"Are both the teams satisfied?"

"They say so. Not a hitch."

"First see that they all get one full jigger of whisky. Then tell them to rest. They will be going out again in just about an hour. Ask Kotze to come and have a word with me, and be ready to sail in five minutes."

"Yes sir."

Largo saw Kotze, the physicist, who was so excited he was trembling and could barely speak coherently until Largo talked him into a state of calm, before establishing that he and Maslov were satisfied with the weapons. He watched as the thin figure shuffled back along the deck to return to his tasks. Scientists were such queer fish, he thought, not for the first time, seeing nothing but science. Kotze had no concept of the risks that still remained; for him the turning of a few screws was the end of the job, and for the rest of the time he would be useless supercargo, but while it would be easier to get rid of him, Blofeld had warned him against taking any such precipitate action – Kotze had to be kept alive in case it did become necessary to use the weapons. Largo didn't like the fellow – he found him depressing and disliked the near-hysterical states he had a tendency to work himself into – such a thing smelled of bad luck in Largo's eyes. He would have to keep the little East German busy and, above all, out of sight, preferably in the engine room. He made his way into the cockpit bridge and ordered the captain to leave the plane's ditching site. The captain engaged the engines, then the hydrofoil, and the yacht sped away, half-flying, half-planing across the sea, giving Largo his customary thrill of joy at its immense speed.

The yacht had caused a sensation in the Bahamas after leaving the Florida Keys via the South Atlantic route, and Largo had used that sensation to his – and SPECTRE's – advantage, gradually letting it be known that he was going to engage on a treasure hunt, complete with a pirates' map and a sunken, coral-encrusted wreck of a galleon. He was, he told friends at dinners and cocktail parties, merely waiting for the end of the winter tourist season, and the onset of the calmer early summer seas, and then work would begin. His shareholders would be arriving in Nassau, ready for the excitement of the dives down to the wreck to recover the treasure. And just two days ago, those 'shareholders' had begun arriving, from New York, Miami, Bermuda, and other places. The Nassauvians considered them rather dull-looking people, hard-headed, hard-working businessmen, and a couple of businesswomen, who would doubtless be amused by such a gamble as diving for doubloons aboard a wreck.

An hour later the yacht approached Dog Island, a hunk of dead coral the size of two tennis courts, with a smattering of sea-grape and battered screw palm that grew on nothing but pockets of brackish rainwater and sand. The _Disco_ came up fast, then slowly lowered herself fully back into the water and slid up within a cable's length of the rock. The anchors were lowered, then Largo and a team of four men slipped out of the underwater hatch. Largo carried nothing but a large underwater electric torch, while the other four men, in two pairs, wore webbing slung between their bodies on which, in grey rubber envelopes, rested a six foot long tapering object: the atomic bombs.

Slowly they swam towards the coral shelf of Dog Island. The under part of it had been eroded by the waves so that, seen from below, it resembled a thick mushroom; under the umbrella of coral there was a wide fissure and it was in this that the two bombs were stored until they should be needed. Largo's men had hammered stanchions into the rock to create two cradles for the two bombs, in which they were secured with thick leather straps. Once he was satisfied that the bombs were properly stowed and secured against any weather, they made their way back to the yacht, and at 1.15pm (7.15 in the morning for Blofeld, who was waiting in Paris), he went to the communications officer and made his contact call:

"No 1 speaking."

"No 2 listening."

"Phase III completed, Phase III completed. Successful. One fifteen am here. Closing down."

"I am satisfied."

Largo stripped off his headset and thought to himself, "So am I! We are more than three-quarters home. Now only the devil himself can stop us."

He went to the stateroom where he made himself a tall glass of crème de menthe frappé with a maraschino cherry on top. He sipped it delicately to the end, then ate the cherry. Then taking another cherry from the bottle, he slipped it into his mouth, before making his way up to the bridge, ready to head back to their anchorage at Nassau. 

007-007-007

_London_

M spent the night in her office. It wasn't, strictly speaking, entirely necessary, but she couldn't face going back to her flat, so she slept on the sofa. The following morning she went down to the pool for an early morning swim before popping out to a nearby coffee shop for a croissant and coffee.

Bill Tanner and Eve Moneypenny arrived at the office within moments of each other, and Eve was surprised to see that the first thing the Chief of Staff did was check the building's log of exits and entrances.

"What's wrong?" she asked quietly, peering over his shoulder.

"I wanted to see what time M went home last night," he answered, briefly glancing across at the boss' office door.

"Why?"

"Because I'm worried about her," Tanner answered curtly. 

"So what time did she go home?"

"She didn't. She went out at 6.30pm, that was for the daily briefing at the Operation _Thunderball_ War Room. But she came back at 9pm, and then went out again briefly at 7.30am." He sighed.

"Are you going to talk to her about it?" Eve asked curiously.

Tanner looked rather horrified at the suggestion. "She wouldn't discuss it with me," he said, then added, "I did try, yesterday, but I got nowhere."

"Should I try?"

He gave her an considering look. "I don't think it'll do any good," he said, "but if you're feeling brave, you could try."

Eve nodded, then gathered up the files waiting for M's signature. "I'll see what I can do." She crossed to M's office door and knocked, then entered.

"Good morning ma'am."

M looked up and Eve noticed that she looked wearier than Eve had ever seen her. "Morning, Miss Moneypenny. Sit down."

Eve complied, then passed the topmost file across the desk. She decided to wait for the most opportune moment to bring up the concern that she and Tanner felt, rather than plunging straight in. 

It was another hour before Eve was able to broach the matter with her boss; M had signed all the paperwork, then gone over several reports with her. 

"I think that's everything, Miss Moneypenny. Thank you."

"There is one more thing, ma'am," Eve said, then swallowed when M's sharp blue gaze fixed on her face.

"Yes?"

"It's – Well – I – That is, Mr Tanner and I – "

"I suggest you come to the point, Miss Moneypenny," M said, her expression softer than her tone of voice. "We both have a lot of work to do this morning."

"Sorry, ma'am." Eve swallowed again. "It's just that Mr Tanner noticed that you stayed here last night, and I know it's probably impertinent, but we're both worried about you."

"Yes it _is_ impertinent," M said sharply.

"Yes, ma'am." Eve got to her feet hastily. "I'm sorry ma'am." She gathered up her armful of files and hurried out.

After she'd gone M sighed, leaning back in her chair. She hadn't meant to bite off Eve's head like that; God knew it was good to know that anyone cared about her health and well-being since there was no one else to do so. But at the same time, she was used to guarding her privacy as well as used to keeping secrets. She would have to apologise to Eve later, but for now she had to collate the pathetic amount of data her people had been able to gather on Emilio Largo and Dominetta Vitali in order to send it to Bond.

007-007-007

_Nassau_

Bond found that the tour of the _Disco_ yielded little in the way of clues as to Largo's intentions for her, but he did note that the short space of the after deck was occupied by a little two-seater amphibian, painted white and dark blue to match the yacht. Its wings were folded and its engine cowled against the sun. Alongside it was a jolly boat big enough to hold twenty men, and an electric derrick to hoist them in and outboard. Bond, estimating the ship's displacement and her free-board, asked casually, "And the hold? More cabin space?"

"Just storage," Largo replied. "And the fuel tanks of course. She is an expensive ship to run. We have to carry several tons. The ballast problem is important with these ships, because when the hydrofoil is engaged and her bows come up, the fuel shifts aft. We have big lateral tanks to correct this issue." 

Still talking fluently and expertly, he led them back up the starboard passageway. They were about to pass the radio room when Bond said, "You said you had ship-to-shore. What else do you carry? The usual Marconi short and long-wave, I suppose. Could I have a look? Radio has always fascinated me."

Largo responded politely, "Some other time, if you don't mind. I'm keeping the operator full time on met. reports. They're rather important to us at the moment."

"Of course."

Once back out on the narrow deck, Largo's affability returned. "So there you are. The good ship _Disco Volante_ \- the Flying Saucer. And she really does fly, I can assure you. I hope you and Mr Larkin will come for a short cruise one of these days. For the present," he smiled with a hint of a secret shared, "as you may have heard, we are rather busy."

"Very exciting, this treasure business. Do you think you've got a good chance?"

"We like to think so." Largo's tone was deprecating, but Bond caught a glint in his eye. "I only wish I could tell you more," he said, waving an apologetic hand. "Unfortunately, as they say, my lips are sealed. I hope you will understand?"

"Yes, of course. You have your shareholders to consider. I only wish I was one so that I could come along. I suppose there's not room for another investor?"

"Alas no. The issue, as they say, is fully subscribed. It would have been very pleasant to have had you with us." Largo held out a hand. "Well, I see that Mr Larkin has been looking anxiously at his watch during our brief tour. We must not keep Mr Christie waiting any longer. It has been a great pleasure to meet you, Mr Bond. And you, Mr Larkin."

Bond and Leiter returned to the launch, and settled themselves in the stern, well away from the boatman. Leiter shook his head. "Absolutely negative. Reaction around the engine room and the radio room, but that's normal. It was all normal, damnably normal. What did you make of him and the whole set-up?"

"Same as you – damned normal. He looks what he says he is, and behaves that way. Not much crew about, but the ones we saw were either ordinary crew or wonderful actors. Only two small things struck me. There was no way down to the hold that I could see, but of course, it could have been a manhole under the passage carpet. But then how do you get the stores he talked of down there? And there's a hell of a lot of space in that hold, even if I don't know much about naval architecture. I'll do a check with the oiling wharf through the customs people, and see just how much fuel he carries. Then it's odd that we didn't see any of these shareholders. It was around three o'clock when we went on board and most of them may have been having siestas. But surely not all nineteen of them? What do they do in their cabins all the time? Another small thing: did you notice that Largo didn't smoke, and that there was no trace of tobacco smell anywhere in the ship? That's odd. Around forty men and women and not one of them is a smoker. If one had anything else to go on, one would say that wasn't coincidence but discipline. The real pros don't drink or smoke. But I admit it's a damned long shot. Notice the Navigator and the echo-sounder? Pretty expensive bits of equipment, both of them. Fairly normal on a big yacht of course, but I'd have expected Largo to point them out when he was showing us the bridge. Rich men are proud of their toys. But I admit that's only clutching at straws. I'd have said the whole outfit's clean as a whistle if it wasn't for all that missing space we weren't shown. That talk about fuel and ballast sounded a bit glib to me. What do you think?"

Leiter nodded. "Same as you. There's at least half of that ship we didn't see. But then again, there's a perfectly good answer to that: he may have got a stack of secret treasure hunting gear down there he doesn't want anyone to see." He looked thoughtful for a moment. "There was a merchant ship off Gibraltar, back during the War, which the Italian frogmen used as a base. Big sort of trapdoor affair cut in the hull below the waterline. You don't suppose he's got something like that?"

Bond gave him a sharp look. "The _Olterra_. One of the blackest marks against Intelligence during the whole war." He paused. "The _Disco_ was anchored in about forty feet of water. Supposing they've got the bombs buried in the sand below her, would your Geiger counter have registered?"

"Doubt it," Leiter answered. "I've got an underwater model so we could go and have a sniff round when it gets dark. But really, James," he frowned impatiently, "aren't we getting a bit off beam – seeing burglars under the bed? We've got damn all to go on. Largo's a powerful-looking piratical sort of chap, probably a bit of a crook where women are concerned. But what the hell have we got against him? Did you put a Trace through on him and these shareholders, and the crew members?"

"Yes. We should get an answer by this evening. But look here, Felix," Bond's expression was stubborn, "there's a damned fast ship with a plane and forty people no one knows anything about. There's not another group or even an individual in the area who looks the least promising. All right, so the outfit looks all right, and its story seems to stand up. But just supposing the whole thing is a con – a damned good one of course, but then so it ought to be with all that's at stake. Take another look at the picture. These so-called shareholders all arrive just in time for June 3. On that night the _Disco_ goes to sea, and stays out until morning. Just supposing she rendezvous'd that plane in shallow water somewhere. Just supposing she picked up the bombs and put them away – in the sand under the ship, if you like. Anyway, somewhere safe and convenient. Just suppose all that and what sort of a picture do you get?"

"A B picture so far as I'm concerned, James." Leiter shrugged resignedly. "But I guess there's just enough to make it a lead." He laughed sardonically. "But I'd rather shoot myself than put it in tonight's report. If we're going to make fools of ourselves, we'd better do it well out of sight and sound of our Chiefs. So what's on your mind? What comes next?"

"I'm going to check with the oiling wharf. Then we'll call up this Domino girl and try to get ourselves asked for a drink and have a quick look at Largo's shore base – this Palmyra. Then we'll go to the Casino and look over the whole of Largo's group. And then – " Bond looked stubbornly at Leiter, "I'm going to borrow a good man from the Police Commissioner to give me a hand, put on an aqualung and go out to have a sniff round the _Disco_ with your other Geiger machine." 

Leiter said laconically, "Well, I'll go along with that, James. Just for old times' sake. But don't go stubbing your toe on a sea-urchin or anything. I see they have free Cha-cha lessons in the hotel ballroom tomorrow. We've got to keep fit for those, as I guess there'll be nothing else in this trip for my memory book."

Bond shook his head, then followed his friend into the hotel, deciding before he did anything else to have a quick shower and check his email account in case there was any news from London.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is incredibly long - I thought I'd never finish it!

Chapter Six

_Nassau_

As it turned out, Bond's plan to visit Palmyra that day was thwarted. He rang Domino Vitali, who told him that it wouldn't be convenient for him and his attorney to visit that evening as her guardian and some of his friends were coming ashore. She agreed that it was possible that they might meet at the Casino that evening. Although she was dining aboard the _Disco_ , it would sail around and anchor off the Casino afterwards. 

She asked, "How shall I recognise you at the Casino? I'm afraid I have a very poor memory for faces. Perhaps you could wear a flower in your buttonhole?"

Bond laughed lightly. "It will be all right, I can still recall your beautiful blue eyes, they're unforgettable, and the blue rinse that matches them." He put the receiver down while she was still giving an amused, rather sexy chuckle in response to his witticism, and he suddenly found he wanted to see her again very much.

But the movement of the ship altered his plans for the better since it would be far easier to reconnoitre her in the harbour. It would be a shorter swim, and he would be able to go into the water under cover of the harbour police wharf. Equally, with her anchorage empty, it would be all the easier to survey the area where she had been lying. But if Largo moved the yacht about so nonchalantly, was it really likely that the bombs, if there were any, would be hidden at the anchorage? If they were, surely the _Disco_ would stand watch over them? Bond decided to put a decision aside until he had more, and more expert, information about the ship's hull. 

He stripped down to his boxer shorts, then sat down at the desk in his room and opened his laptop to check his email. He was disappointed yet, somehow, not surprised by the dearth of information on Largo, his 'shareholders', or his crew in the email from M. After seeing the man this afternoon, Bond felt convinced that Largo was responsible for hiding the plane and the bombs, but unsurprised that he didn't have any sort of record – Largo had struck him as too wily. He composed a brief report about his visit aboard the _Disco Volante_ , then detailed his plans for the rest of the evening and night, so that M would be assured that he wasn't simply playing the rich playboy. He finished the email with a PS to the effect that he hoped she was coping with the loss of her husband, then deleted it. He did hope that she was coping, but to mention it seemed like an intrusion if not an impertinence, even if he did want her to know that he was concerned about her. Bond sighed heavily, sent the email off, shut down the laptop, then went into the bathroom for a shower.

After showering and changing his clothes, he borrowed Leiter's rented car and drove over to see the Police Commissioner. He found Harling at his desk with his jacket off, dictating to a police sergeant. The latter was dismissed promptly, then he lit a cigarette before smiling quizzically at the agent. "Any progress?"

Bond told him that the Trace on the Largo group had been negative, and that he and a colleague had called on Largo and gone over the _Disco_ with a Geiger counter. This also had been negative. Bond expressed his dissatisfaction and told the Commissioner what he wanted to know about the fuel capacity of the yacht and the exact location of the fuel tanks. 

Harling nodded amiably, then picked up the telephone and asked for a Sergeant Molony of the Harbour Police. Cradling the receiver, he explained, "We check all fuelling. This is a narrow harbour, crammed with small craft, deep sea fishing boats, and so on. Quite a fire hazard if something went wrong so we like to know just what everyone is carrying, and whereabouts it is in the ship. Just in case there's any fire-fighting to be done, or we want a particular ship to get out of range in a hurry." He went back to the telephone. "Sergeant Molony?" He repeated Bond's questions, listened, thanked the man, then put down the receiver. "She carries a maximum of 500 gallons of diesel. Took that amount in on the afternoon of June 2. She also carries about 40 gallons of lubricating oil and a 100 gallons of drinking water – all of which is amidships, just forrard of the engine room. That what you want?"

This information made nonsense of Largo's talk of lateral tanks and the difficult ballast problem, and so on. Of course, he could have wanted to keep some secret treasure-hunting gear out of sight of the visitors, but at least there _was_ something on board that he wanted to hide, and, for all his show of openness, it was now established that Emilio Largo might be a rich treasure hunter, but he was definitely also an unreliable witness. Now Bond's mind was made up. It was the hull of the ship he wanted to have a look at – Leiter's mention of the _Olterra_ had been a long shot, but it just might pay off.

Bond passed on a guarded version of his thoughts to the Commissioner, telling him where the _Disco_ would be lying that night, and asking if there was anyone on the force, someone totally reliable, who could give him a hand with his underwater recce, and was there a sound aqualung, fully charged, available for him to borrow?

Harling gently asked if this was wise, saying he didn't exactly know the laws of trespass, but these people seemed to be good citizens, and they were certainly good spenders. Largo was very popular with everyone and any kind of scandal, particularly if the police were involved, would create a hell of a stink in the Colony.

Bond said firmly, "I'm sorry, Commissioner. I quite see your point of view, but these risks have to be run, and I've got a job to do. Surely the Secretary of State's instructions are sufficient authority?" He fired his broadside. "I could get specific orders from him, or the Prime Minister for that matter, in about an hour, if you feel it's necessary." He tilted his head enquiringly at Harling.

The Commissioner shook his head, then smiled. "No need to use the big guns, Mr Bond. Of course you shall have what you want. I was just giving you the local reaction. I'm sure the Governor would have given you the same warning. This a small puddle here and we're not used to such crash treatment from Whitehall. No doubt we'll get used to it if this flap lasts long enough. Now then." He paused for a moment's thought, "We've got what you want. There are twenty men and women in the Harbour Salvage Unit – you'd be surprised how often a small boat gets wrecked in the fairway, just where some cruise ship's going to anchor. And of course there's the occasional body. I'll have Constable Santos assigned to you. Splendid woman. A native of Eleuthera, where she used to win lots of swimming prizes. She'll have the gear you want, where you want it. Now, just give me the exact details…"

Back in his hotel room, Bond once again stripped down to his boxer shorts, swallowed down a drink, then threw himself down on his bed. He felt completely shattered – the plane trip, the heat, and the nagging sense that he was making a fool of himself in front of the Commissioner, Leiter, and even himself, in combination with the dangers, and probably futile ones at that, of the planned night swim, had built up tensions that could only be eased by sleep and solitude. He closed his eyes, and was out like a light – to dream of M being chased by a shark with dazzling white teeth that suddenly became Largo, who turned on him with those huge hands, which came closer reaching slowly for him, until they had him by the shoulders… But then the bell rang for the end of the round, and went on ringing.

Bond reached out a sleep-drugged hand for the receiver. It was Leiter, wanting a Martini, as it was nine o'clock, and also wanting to know what the hell was Bond doing? Did he want someone to help with his zip? Bond chuckled sleepily and promised to be down forthwith. 

"Forthwith? Is that your Limey way of saying 'soon'?" Leiter demanded, drawling the words out in his strongest American accent.

"Just let me get some clothes on, and I'll be down, Felix," Bond answered.

"Well, don't hang around, all right?

"I won't."

As he dressed again Bond wondered why he'd been dreaming of M; he never had before, so far as he could recall, and he wasn't aware that she was especially under threat at the moment or, at least, no more than anyone else was while SPECTRE's demands hung over them. He shook his head, shrugging off the memory of the dream: he had more important things to worry about.

007-007-007

The Pineapple Room, where Bond and Leiter had arranged to meet, was panelled in bamboo carefully varnished against termites. There were wrought iron pineapples on the tables and against the walls, each of which contained a segment of thick red candle. More light was provided by illuminated aquaria let into the walls and by ceiling lights enclosed in pink glass starfish. The décor made Bond wince, but he threaded his way through the ivory white Vinylite banquettes, noting that the waiters and the barman wore scarlet satin calypso shirts with their black trousers.

Bond joined Leiter at his corner table. They both wore white dinner jackets with their dress trousers, but Bond had pointed up his rich, property-seeking playboy status by adding a wine-red cummerbund. Leiter laughed. "I nearly tied a gold-plated bicycle chain around my waist in case of trouble, but I remembered just in time that I'm a peaceful lawyer. I suppose it's right that you should get the girls on this assignment, and I'll just stand by, ready to arrange the marriage settlement and later the alimony." He beckoned the waiter over as Bond chuckled dutifully at his witticism, although he wasn't at all sure he'd be getting any girls, despite his desire to see Domino again.

Leiter ordered them both a drink, specifying Bond's own recipe for their Vodka Martinis. "Any news from London?" he asked, after the waiter had delivered their drinks.

Bond sighed. "No. M reported that they've been unable to dig up anything on Largo, or his 'shareholders', or the ship's crew. She did share some information about Domino Vitali, but not as much as I'd have liked. I was hoping Domino might provide a way of getting to Largo."

"She still might," Leiter said, "especially if you exercise some of your famous Limey charm on her."

Bond scowled and Leiter grimaced apologetically. "Sorry, old man." He sighed. "You know, I don't doubt this whole operation isn't the true bill, hell of a mess, in fact, but it riles me that we should be stuck down in this sand pit while the other guys have got all the hot spots – you know, places where something really may be happening – or at least, is likely to happen. Tell you the truth. I felt like a damned fool gumshoeing around that feller's yacht this afternoon with my little Geiger toy." He gave Bond a keen look over the rim of his glass. "You don't find you grow out of these things?"

Bond shook his head. "I daresay you think I'm taking M's hunch too seriously, but I trust her judgement, and there's definitely something fishy going on. I checked up on that fuel problem and Largo certainly lied to us." He repeated the information he'd learned while with Harling earlier. 

"I've got to make sure, tonight. You do realise there's only about seventy hours left until SPECTRE's deadline expires? If I find anything, I suggest that tomorrow we take small plane and run a search over as much of the area as we can cover. That bomber's a big thing to hide, even under water. You'll help me, won't you?"

"Sure, sure." Leiter shrugged his shoulders. "I'll go along with you, of course I will. If we find anything, perhaps the message I got this evening won't look so damn silly."

"What message was that?" asked Bond curiously. 

Leiter took a swallow from his glass and gazed at its contents. "Well, for my money it's just so much posturing by those power-hungry fatcats in the Pentagon, but I got a circular that was sent to all our people on this job to say that the Army, the Navy and the Air Force are holding themselves ready to give full support to the CIA if anything turns up." He glanced up at Bond, scowling. "Think of the waste of fuel and manpower that must be going on all over the world to keep these units in readiness."

He gave a rather harsh laugh. "And do you know what they've done?" Bond shook his head. "Only assigned me a half-squadron of fighter bombers from Pensacola – and, my friend, the _Manta_." He jabbed at Bond's forearm. "The _Manta_! Only our latest atomic submarine."

When Bond smiled at Leiter's vehemence, the CIA man calmed down again. "Mind you, it's not quite so idiotic as it sounds. The fighters are on anti-submarine sweep duties anyway, and carrying depth charges. They have to be at readiness. And the _Manta_ just happens to be on some sort of a training cruise in the area, getting ready to go under the South Pole for a change, I suppose."

Bond shrugged his shoulders. "Seems to me that your President's taking all of this a bit more seriously than his Man in Nassau. I suppose our Chiefs of Staff have weighed in with our staff on the other side of the Atlantic. Anyway, no harm in having the big battalions in the offing just in case Nassau Casino happens to be Target No 1. By the way, what ideas have your people got about these targets? What have you got in this part of the world that fits in with SPECTRE's letter? We've only got the joint rocket base at the eastern end of the Grand Bahamas. That's about 150 miles north of here. Apparently the gear and prototypes we and you have got there would easily be worth £500,000,000."

"The only possible targets I've been given are Cape Canaveral, the naval base at Pensacola, and if the party really is going to take place in this area, Miami for Target No 2, with Tampa as a possible runner-up. SPECTRE used the words 'A piece of property belonging to the Western Powers'. That sounds like some kind of installation to me – something like the uranium mines in the Congo, for instance. But a rocket base would fit all right. If we've got to take this thing seriously, I'd lay odds on Canaveral or this place on Grand Bahama. Only thing I can't understand, if they've got these bombs, how are they going to transport them to the target and set them off?"

"A sub could do it – just lay one of the bombs off-shore through a torpedo tube. Or a sailing dinghy for that matter. Apparently exploding these things is no problem so long as they recovered all the parts from the plane. M told me that they'd just have to insert some kind of fuse in the right place between the TNT and the plutonium, and screw the impact fuse off the nose, fitting a time fuse in its place that would give them time to get a hundred miles away." Bond added casually, "Have to have an expert who knows the drill of course, but the trip would be no problem for the _Disco_ , for instance. She cold lay the bomb off Grand Bahama at midnight, and be back at anchor off Palmyra by breakfast time." He smiled. "See what I mean? It all adds up."

"Nuts," said Leiter in a surprisingly restrained fashion. "You'll have to do better than that if you want my blood pressure to go up. Anyway, let's get the hell out of here and go have something to eat in one of those clip joints on Bay Street. Then we'll go along to the casino and see if Mr Fuchs or Signor Pontecorvo is sitting beside Largo at the blackjack table."

007-007-007

_London_

"Would you care to come and have dinner with me?" Gareth Mallory asked M as they were leaving the Operation _Thunderball_ War Room.

"Why?"

He gave her a slightly bewildered look. "Well, we all need to eat, and I'd like to get to know you better."

The blue-eyed stare she directed at him was sharper than a knife. "Why?" she repeated.

Mallory gave a half shrug. "We have to work together, and I think it pays to know my colleagues." He gave her a small smile. "Besides, I'm fascinated to know more about the first woman ever to be made Chief of MI6. I'm certain it wasn't easy for you to attain such a high rank."

"And I'm likely to be the last woman to do so," M said tartly. "Just like Maggie Thatcher becoming PM."

Mallory said gently, "You can't know that."

"No, I know." Her expression softened slightly, and he allowed his posture to relax a little. "Very well, Mr Mallory, I will have dinner with you. But you must be aware that I'm bound by the OSA, so I'm not going to share many details of my work with you."

He quirked an eyebrow at her. "The Official Secrets Act applies to me too, M." She scowled and he added hastily, "Tell me as much as you feel comfortable with."

"What makes you think I'd tell you more?" she asked, blue eyes glinting.

He chuckled. "Nothing. I'm quite sure you're perfectly capable of keeping hundreds of secrets."

"Of course." She followed him along the pavement to where his car and driver waited in front of her own, and moved on to dismiss Richardson, telling him that she wouldn't want him again before tomorrow.

When she rejoined Mallory, he was holding open the rear passenger door for her, and she flicked up an eyebrow before climbing into the car. He couldn't help thinking that she had a very interesting face: most of the time it was quite animated, but if she didn't want you to know what she was thinking, then M had the most perfect poker face he'd ever seen. 

007-007-007

Dinner with M, Mallory soon learned, was no ordinary affair. She asked him a few leading questions and he found himself talking to her at length about the time he spent as an IRA hostage. It wasn't something he normally discussed with anyone and, in fact, he'd done his best to forget about it in the intervening years. He discovered, however, that M had the ability to listen so intently that talking to her was very easy, and he realised afterwards that she must have been a brilliant field agent, because she deceived you into forgetting just who you were dealing with.

For her part, M had said comparatively little about her experiences, either as a field agent, or as head of Station H in the run up to the handover of Hong Kong to the Chinese, and by the time he got home, he had realised that M would make a formidable opponent if he ever got on the wrong side of her.

Standing in the hallway of his bachelor flat, Mallory recalled her questions about his state of mind after his three months as a hostage of the IRA.

"If you found the individuals concerned, would you kill them or arrest them?" M had asked.

"Arrest them."

"And if they resisted arrest?"

Mallory had swallowed. "I'd do my best to bring them in alive, even so."

She had raised an eyebrow, her blue eyes intent on his face. "Would you really?" she had asked softly. "Or are you just saying that because you think it makes you more civilised than them?" She had shaken her head before adding, "They're remorseless killers, brutal murderers, Mallory. You don't owe them anything, least of all compassion."

Mallory shook his head to clear it even as he recalled the steely expression in M's face as she'd spoken. Perhaps he'd learned more about M than he'd realised, just not what he'd expected to learn. 

007-007-007

_Nassau_

The Governor's ADC had provided Bond and Leiter with membership cards for the Nassau Casino, so after coffee and a cocktail at the bar, they separated and went to the gaming tables. 

Bond found Largo playing chemin de fer, and he had a fat pile of hundred-dollar plaques in front of him, as well as half a dozen of the big thousand-dollar ones. Domino Vitali sat behind him, chain-smoking and watching the play. Bond observed the game from a distance, noting that Largo was playing expansively, bancoing whenever he could, and letting his own banks runs. He was winning steadily, but doing so with excellent manners, and judging by the way people were joking with him and applauding his coups, he was obviously a favourite in the casino. 

Domino, dressed in a black dress with a square-cut neckline and a large diamond on a thin chain at her throat, looked morose and bored. The woman on Largo's right, having bancoed him three times and lost, got up and left the table, so Bond quickly crossed the room and slipped into her place. It was a bank of eight hundred dollars, the round sum being down to Largo making up the cagnotte after each play.

It's good for the banker when he's got past the third banco as it often means the bank is going to run. Bond knew this perfectly well, and that his available capital was not a vast sum, but the fact that everyone else was so nervous of Largo's luck made him bold. And, after all, the table has no memory. Luck, he told himself, is strictly for the birds. He said, "Banco."

"Ah, my good friend Mr Bond." Largo held out a hand. "Now we have the big money coming to the table. Perhaps I should pass the bank. The English know how to play at railway trains, but still," he smiled charmingly, "if I have to lose I would certainly like to lose to Mr Bond."

The big brown hand gave the shoe a soft slap, and Largo eased out the pink tongue of playing card and moved it across the baize to Bond. He took one for himself and then pressed out one more for each of them. Bond picked up his first card and flicked it face up into the middle of the table. It was a nine, the nine of diamonds. He glanced sideways at Largo and said, "That is always a good start – so good that I will also face my second card." He casually flicked it out to join the nine, it turned over in mid-air and fell beside the nine, revealing that it was a ten, a glorious ten of spades. Unless Largo's two cards also added up to nine or nineteen, Bond had won.

Largo laughed, but the laugh had a hard edge to it. "You certainly make me try," he said gaily. He threw his cards to follow Bond's, revealing that they were the eight of hearts and the King of clubs. Largo had lost by a pip – two naturals, but one just better than the other, the cruellest way to lose. Largo laughed hugely. "Somebody had to be second," he said to the table at large. "What did I say? The English can pull what they like out of the shoe."

The croupier pushed the chips across to Bond, who made a small pile of them, then gestured at the heap in front of Largo: "So, it seems, can the Italians. I told you this afternoon we should go into partnership."

This time Largo's laughter was delighted. "Well, let's just try once again. Put in what you have won, and I'll banco it in partnership with Mr Snow on your right. Yes, Mr Snow?"

Mr Snow, a tough-looking European who Bond recalled was one of the 'shareholders', agreed. Bond put in the eight hundred and they each put in four against him. He won again, this time with a six against a five for the table – once more by just one point.

Largo shook his head mournfully. "Now indeed we have seen the writing on the wall. Mr Snow, you will have to continue alone. This Mr Bond has green fingers against me, I surrender."

Now Largo was smiling only with his mouth, Bond noted. Mr Snow suivied and pushed forward 1,600 dollars to cover Bond's stake. Bond thought, "I've made 1,600 dollars in two coups, over 500 pounds. And it would be fun to pass the bank and for the bank to go down on the next hand." He withdrew his stake and said, "La main passe."

There was a buzz of excited comment around the table and Largo said dramatically, "Don't do it to me! Don't tell me the bank's going to go down on the next hand! If it does, I shoot myself. Okay, okay, I will buy Mr Bond's bank and we will see." He threw some plaques out onto the table – 1,600 dollars' worth.

And Bond heard his own voice say banco. He was bancoing his own bank – telling Largo that he had done it to him once, then twice, and now he was going to do it, inevitably, again.

Largo turned right around to face Bond. Smiling only with his mouth, he narrowed his eyes and looked carefully, with a new curiosity, at the other man's face. He said quietly, "But you are hunting me, my dear fellow. You are pursuing me. What is this? Vendetta?"

Bond thought, "I'll see if an association of words does something to him." Aloud, he said, "When I came to the table I saw a spectre." He said the word casually, with no hint at double meaning.

The smile came off Largo's face as if he'd been slapped. It was at once switched on again, but now the whole face was tense, strained, and the eyes had gone watchful and very hard. His tongue came out and touched his lips. "Really? What do you mean?"

Bond said lightly, "The spectre of defeat. I thought your luck was on the turn. Perhaps I was wrong." He gestured at the shoe. "Let's see."

The table had gone quiet. The players and spectators felt that a new tension had come between the two men, and suddenly there was a smell of enmity there where before there had only been jokes. A glove had been thrown down, by the Englishman. Was it about the girl? Probably. The crowd licked its lips.

Largo laughed sharply, switching gaiety and bravado onto his face. "Aha!" His voice was boisterous again, "My friend wishes to put the evil eye upon my cards. We have a way to deal with that where I come from." He lifted a hand, and with the first and little fingers outstretched in a fork, he prodded once, like a snake striking, towards Bond's face. To the crowd it doubtless looked like a playful piece of theatre, but Bond, within the strong aura of the man's animal magnetism, felt the ill-temper, the malevolence behind the old Mafia gesture.

Bond laughed good-naturedly. "That certainly put the hex on me. But what did it do to the cards? Come on, your spectre against my spectre."

Again the look of doubt came over Largo's face as he seemed to wonder at Bond's use of that word again. He gave the shoe a hefty slap. "All right, my fried, we are wrestling with the best of three fails. Here comes the third."

Quickly his first two fingers flicked out the four cards. The crowd around the table had hushed. Bond faced his pair inside his hand. He had a total of five – a ten of clubs and a five of hearts. Five is a marginal number, one can either draw or not. Bond folded the cards face down on the table, and said, with the confident look of a man who has six or seven, "No card, thank you."

Largo's eyes narrowed as he tried to read Bond's face, then he turned up his cards and flicked them into the middle of the table with a gesture of disgust. He also had a count of five. Now what would he do? Draw or not draw. Largo looked again at the quiet smile of confidence on Bond's face – and drew. It was a nine, the nine of spades. By drawing another card instead of standing on his five and equalling Bond, he had drawn and now had a four to Bond's five.

Impassively, Bond turned up his cards and said, "I'm afraid you should have killed the evil eye in the pack, not in me."

There was a buzz of commentary from around the table, "But if the Italians had stood on his five – " "I always draw on a five." "I never do." "It was bad luck." "No, it was bad play."

Now Bond could see the obvious effort it cost Largo to keep the snarl off his face, but he managed it: the forced smile lost its twist, the balled up fists relaxed. He took a deep breath, then held out his hand to Bond, who took it, folding his thumb inside his palm just in case Largo might give him a bone-crusher with his massive hand. But it was a firm grasp and no more before Largo said, "Now I must wait for the shoe to come around again. You have taken all my winnings and I have a hard evening's work ahead of me, just when I was going to take my niece for a drink and a dance. 

He turned to Domino. "My dear, I don't think you know Mr Bond, except on the telephone. I'm afraid he has upset my plans and you must find someone else to squire you."

Bond said, "How do you do. Didn't we meet in the tobacconist's this morning?" 

The girl screwed up her eyes as she said indifferently, "Yes? It is possible. I have such a bad memory for faces."

Bond said, "Well, could I give you a drink? I can just afford even a Nassau drink now, thanks to the generosity of Mr Largo. And I have finished here. This sort of thing can't last. I mustn't press my luck." 

The girl got up, saying ungraciously, "If you have nothing better to do." She turned to Largo. "Emilio, perhaps if I take this Mr Bond away, your luck will turn again. I will be in the supper room having caviar and champagne. We must try and get as much of your funds as we can back in the family."

Largo laughed, his spirits had clearly returned. He said, "You see, Mr Bond, you are out of the frying pan into the fire. In Dominetta's hands, you may not fare so well as in mine. See you later, my dear fellow. I must now get back to the salt mines where you have consigned me."

Bond said, "Well, thanks for the game. I'll order champagne and caviar for three. My spectre also deserves his reward." Wondering whether the shadow that flickered in Largo's eyes at the word had more significance than Italian superstition, he got up and followed the girl between the crowded tables to the supper room.

As Domino led Bond towards a table in the farthest corner of the room he noticed that she had the smallest trace of a limp, and it gave her a childishness that her blatant sex appeal couldn't quite disguise. After their champagne and caviar had arrived he asked her if she'd hurt herself while swimming earlier in the day.

"No, I have one leg an inch shorter than the other. I suppose it displeases you?"

Bond shook his head, slightly startled by the tone of her voice – she seemed hurt that he'd drawn attention to it. "It makes you seem younger," he observed. "Although I suspect you're younger than you pretend to be, certainly younger than you dress. I think you were carefully brought up, in a red-carpet sort of way, and then red carpet was suddenly jerked away from under your feet, and you were thrown more or less onto the street. So you picked yourself up and started to work your way back to the red carpet you'd got used to having. You were probably fairly ruthless about it, you'd have had to be since you only had a woman's weapons, and you probably used them pretty coolly. I expect you used your body. It would be a wonderful asset." He ran his eyes up and down her figure as she sat sideways to him, her long legs crossed at the knee and displaying an inviting amount of lower leg through the slit of her long black dress. 

"I imagine, however, that in using your body to get what you wanted, your sensibilities had to be buried, although I doubt they're very far underground. They certainly haven't atrophied yet, just lost their voice because you won't listen to them. You couldn't afford to, if you were to get back on that red carpet and have the things you wanted." Bond gave her a half smile. "And perhaps you've almost had enough of them." He smiled properly. "But I mustn't get too serious, not about the smaller things. You know all about them, but just for the record, you're beautiful, provocative, sexy, self-willed, independent, quick-tempered, and cruel." 

She looked at him thoughtfully. "There's nothing very clever about all that." Bond was reminded sharply of Vesper's response to his analysis of her character aboard the train as they travelled to Montenegro. "I told you most of it, and you know something about Italian women. But why do you say I'm cruel."

"If I was gambling, and I took a knock like Largo just did, and I had a woman, my woman, sitting near me watching, and she didn't give me one word of comfort or encouragement, I would say she was being cruel. Men don't like falling in front of their women."

She said impatiently, "I've had to sit there too often and watch him show off. I wanted you to win, I cannot pretend I didn't. You didn't mention my only virtue. It's honesty. I love to the hilt and I hate to the hilt. At the present time, with Emilio, I am half way, so where we were lovers, now we are good friends who understand each other. When I told you he was my guardian, I was telling a white lie: I am his kept woman. I'm a bird in a gilded cage and I am fed up with my cage, and tired of my bargain." She gave Bond a defensive look. "Yes, it is cruel for Emilio, but it also human. You can buy the outside of the body, but you cannot buy what is inside – what people call the heart and soul. But Emilio knows that. He wants women for use, not for love. He has had thousands in this way. He knows where we both stand, he is realistic. But it is becoming more difficult to keep to my bargain – to, to, let's call it sing for my supper."

She stopped abruptly, then said, "Give me some more champagne. All this silly talking has made me thirsty."

Bond poured her some more champagne, aware that he pitied her and wanted to help her, but aware, also, that he was not as attracted to her as he'd expected to be, and he wondered why. Had Vesper really meant that much to him? He thought not, after all, he had slept with other women since losing her, but such encounters seemed even less meaningful than they had in the past.

Domino asked him to get her a packet of Player' cigarettes, and he beckoned to the cigarette girl, then listened as Domino told him a rather long, fanciful tale about the sailor in the picture on the packet. It seemed, to him, to emphasise her childishness, and something of that thought must have escaped him, despite his best intentions to keep such an opinion to himself, because when he spoke again, after she concluded her tale, Domino said, in a different, rather primmer voice than the one she'd used while recounting the tale, "Well, thank you anyway for listening to the story. I know it's all a fairy tale, at least, I suppose it is. But children are stupid that way."

Bond winced, but before he could answer, she continued, "Children like to have something to keep under the pillow until they're quite grown up – a rag doll, or a small toy, or something. I know that boys are just the same because my brother hung on to a little metal charm his nanny had given him, until he was nineteen. Then he lost it. I shall never forget the scenes he made, even though he was in the Air Force by then. He said it brought him luck." She shrugged and he heard sarcasm in her voice as she added, "He needn't have worried, he did all right. He was much older than me, but I adored him. I still do. Girls always love crooks, particularly if they're their brother. He did so well that he might have done something for me, but he never did. He said that life was every man for himself. He said that his grandfather was so famous a poach and a smuggler in the Dolomites that his was the finest tombstone among all the Petacchi graves in the graveyard at Bolzano. My brother said he was going to have a finer one still, and by making money the same way."

Bond took a firmer grasp on the stem of his champagne glass as he asked, "Is your family name Petacchi then?"

"Oh yes. Vitali is only a stage name. It sounded better so I changed it. Nobody knows the other. I'd almost forgotten it myself. I've called myself Vitali since I came back to Italy, because I wanted to change everything."

"What happened to your brother? What was his first name?"

If Domino found Bond's questions strange, she didn't say so. "Guiseppe. He went wrong in various ways, but he was a wonderful flyer. The last time I heard of him, he'd been given a high-up job in Paris. Perhaps that'll make him settle down. I pray every night that it will. He's all I've got. I love him, in spite of everything. You understand that?"

Bond drained his glass and called for the bill. "Yes, I understand that."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

_Nassau_

The dark water below the police wharf sucked and kissed at the rusty iron stanchions. In the latticed shadows cast through the ironwork by the three-quarter moon, Constable Santos heaved the single aqualung cylinder up onto Bond's back and he secured the webbing at his waist so that it wouldn't snarl in the strap of Leiter's second Geiger counter, an underwater model this time. He fitted the rubber mouthpiece between his teeth and adjusted the valve release until the air supply was just right. He turned off the supply and took out the mouthpiece. He realised he could hear the music of the steel band in the Junkanoo night-club as it floated gaily across the water; it sounded like a giant spider dancing on a tenor xylophone.

Santos was a tall, well-built, but shapely woman, naked except for her one-piece swimming suit. Bond glanced at her and asked, "What should I expect to see at this time of night? Any big fish about?"

Santos smiled at him. "The usual harbour stuff, sir. Some barracuda, perhaps, maybe a shark. But they're lazy and overfed with refuse and muck from the drains, so they won't trouble you, unless you're bleeding of course. There'll be night-crawling things on the bottom – lobster, crabs, maybe a small pus-feller or two," she used the local slang for octopus that always amused Bond. "The bottom's mostly sea-grass on bits of iron from wrecks, and plenty of bottles and the like. Mucky, if you get me, sir. But the water's clear and you'll be okay with this moon and the lights from the _Disco_ to guide you. It'll take you about twelve, fifteen minutes, I'd say. It's a funny thing, I've been here an hour, keeping an eye out, and there's no watchman on deck and no one in the wheelhouse. The bit of breeze should hide your bubbles. I could've given you an oxygen re-breather, but I don't like them myself. They're dangerous."

Bond nodded his appreciation of her expert opinion. "All right, let's go then. See you in about half an hour." He felt for the knife at his waist, shifted the webbing and put the mouthpiece between his teeth. He turned on the air and, his fins slapping on the muddy sand, walked down and into the water. There he bent down, spat into his mask to prevent it steaming up, washed it and adjusted it. Then he walked slowly onwards, getting used to the breathing. By the end of the wharf he was up to his ears. He quietly submerged, then launched himself forward into an easy leg crawl, his hands alongside his thighs.

The mud shelved steeply and Bond kept going downwards until, at about forty feet, he was only a few inches above the bottom. He glanced at the big luminous figures on the dial of his Omega watch – 12.10. He untensed his muscles and put his legs into an easy, relaxed rhythm that allowed him to move forward rapidly without requiring too much energy.

Through the roof of small waves above him the pale moonlight flickered on the grey bottom, and the rubbish – motor tyres, cans, bottles – cast black shadows. A small octopus, feeling his shock-wave, turned from dark brown to pale grey and squeezed itself softly back into the mouth of the oil-drum that was its home. Sea flowers, the gelatinous polyps that grow out of the sand at night, whisked down their holes as Bond's dark shadow touched them. Other tiny night things puffed thin jets of silt out of their small volcanoes in the mud as they felt the tremor of Bond's passage, and an occasional hermit crab snapped itself back into its borrowed shell. It was like travelling across a moon landscape, on and under which many mysterious creatures lived minute lives. Bond watched it all carefully, as if he had been an underwater naturalist. He knew that was the way to keep his nerves steady under the sea – to focus his whole attention on the people who lived there and not try to probe the sinister grey walls of mist for imaginary monsters.

The rhythm of his steady progress soon became automatic, and while Bond, keeping the moon at his right shoulder, held to his course, his mind reached back to his conversation with Domino. She was the sister of the man who had probably hijacked the plane – possibly even Largo, if Largo was in fact involved in the plot (which Bond's instincts said he was), didn't know this. So what did the relationship amount to? Coincidence, it could be nothing else. Her whole manner was so entirely innocent. And yet it was one more thin straw to add to the meagre pile that seemed in some indeterminate way to be adding up to Largo's involvement. And Largo's reaction to the word 'spectre' – that could be put down to Italian superstition, or it could not. Bond had a deadly feeling that all these tiny scraps amounted to the tip of an iceberg, a few feet of ice pinnacle, with below, a thousand tons of the stuff. Should he report back to M? His mind hovered in indecision. How could he put it, grade the intelligence so that it would reflect his doubts, yet convey his instincts? How much should he say, and how much should he leave out? After a few moments thought, he decided to tell M everything – she had sufficient experience and wisdom to sort out the wheat from the chaff, and he trusted her judgement.

Although Bond's mind was on something else, his senses were fully alert to his surroundings, and he suddenly became aware of danger. His head snapped to the right as his hand went to his knife as he became aware of a big barracuda bearing down on him. The creature must have been twenty pounds, at least, and Bond knew that it was the most fearsome fish in the sea, even more fearsome than a shark. Clean, straight and malevolent, it was nothing but a hostile weapon from its long snarling mouth in the cruel jaw that can open like a rattlesnake's to an angle of ninety degrees, along the blue and silver steel of the body, to the lazy power of the tail-fin that helps to make this fish one of the five fastest sprinters in the seas. 

This one, moving parallel with Bond, ten yards away, just inside the wall of grey mist that was the edge of visibility, was showing its danger signals: the broad lateral strips showed vividly – the angry hunting sign – the gold and black tiger's eye was on him, watchful, curious, and the long mouth was open half an inch so that the moonlight glittered on the sharpest row of teeth in the ocean – teeth that don't bite at the flesh, teeth that tear out a chunk, swallow, and then hit and scythe again. 

Bond's stomach crawled with apprehension and his skin tightened at his groin. Cautiously he glanced at his watch and saw that there were about three more minutes to go before he came up with the _Disco_. He made a sudden turn and attacked fast towards the great fish, flashing his knife in fast offensive lunges. The giant barracuda gave a couple of lazy wags of its tail and, when Bond turned back on his course, it also turned and resumed its indolent, sneering course, weighing him up, choosing which bit – the shoulder, the buttock, the foot – to take first.

Bond tried to recall what he knew about big predator fish, what he had experienced with them before. The first rule was not to panic, to be unafraid since fear communicates itself to fish just as it does to dogs and horses. Establish a quiet pattern of behaviour and stick to it, and don't show confusion or act chaotically. In the sea, untidiness, ragged behaviour, mean that the possible victim is out of control, vulnerable, so keep to a rhythm. A thrashing fish is everyone's prey. A crab or a shell thrown upside by a wave is offering its underside to a hundred enemies, a fish on its side is a dead fish. Bond trudged rhythmically onwards, exuding immunity to the best of his ability.

To his right, the thin black lance of shadow cast by the barracuda moved with him with quiet precision. A dense mass of silvery small fry showed up ahead, suspended in mid-stream as if they had been bottled in aspic. When the two parallel bodies approached, the mass divided sharply, leaving wide channels for the two enemies, then closed in behind them into the phalanx they adopted for an illusory protection. Bond watched the barracuda through the cloud of fish, noting the way it moved majestically onwards, ignoring the food around it as a fox creeping up on the chicken run will ignore the rabbits in the warren. Bond sealed himself into the armour of his rhythm, transmitting to the barracuda that he was a bigger, more dangerous fish, that the barracuda must not be misled by the whiteness of his flesh.

Amongst the waving sea-grass which showed up ahead of him, the black barb of the _Disco_ 's anchor looked like another enemy. The trailing chain rose from the bottom and disappeared into the upper mists, and Bond followed it up, forgetting the barracuda in his relief at hitting the target, and in the excitement of what he might find.

Now he swam very slowly, watching the white explosion of the moon on the surface contract and define itself; he glanced down once and noted there was no sign of the barracuda. Perhaps the anchor and chain had somehow seemed inimical. The long hull of the ship grew out of the upper mists and took shape, a great Zeppelin in the water. The folded mechanism of the hydrofoil looked ungainly, as if it did not belong. Bond clung for a moment to the starboard flange to get his bearings. Far down to his left the big twin screws, bright in the moonlight, hung suspended, motionless, yet somehow charged with thrashing speed. Bond slowly moved along the hull towards them, staring upwards for what he sought until he drew in his breath at the sight of what he had hoped, but hadn't quite dared to believe, he'd see. The ridge of a wide hatch lay below the waterline, and he groped his way over it, measuring roughly how big it was: about twelve feet square, divided down the centre. Bond paused for a moment, wondering what lay inside the closed doors, then he pressed the switch of the Geiger counter and held the machine against the steel plates. He watched the dial of the meter on his left wrist as it trembled, showing that the machine was alive, but registering only the fraction Leiter had told him to expect from the hull. Bond switched the thing off. So much for that. Now for home.

The clang beside his ear and the sharp impact against his left shoulder were simultaneous, and Bond automatically sprang back from the hull. Below him the bright needle of a spear wavered slowly down into the depths, and he whirled around even as he registered the spear's disappearance. A man, his black rubber suit glinting like armour in the moonlight, was pedalling furiously in the water while he thrust another spear down the barrel of a CO2 gun. Bond immediately hurled himself towards the man, flailing at the water with his fins. The man pulled back the loading lever and levelled the gun, and Bond knew he wouldn't make it – he was still six strokes away. He stopped suddenly, ducked his head, and jack-knifed downwards, feeling the shockwave of the silent explosion of gas, and something hitting his foot. Now! He soared up below the man, scything upwards with his knife, and felt the blade go in and the black rubber of the diving suit against his hand. Then the butt of the gun hit him behind the ear and a white hand came down, scrabbling at his air-pipe. Bond slashed wildly with his knife, his hand seeming to move with terrifying slowness through the water until the point ripped something. The hand let go of his mask, but now Bond couldn't see. Again the butt of the gun crashed down on his head, and he realised that the water was full of black smoke, heavy, stringy stuff that clung to the glass of his mask. 

Bond backed painfully, slowly away, clawing at the glass until, at last, it cleared. The black smoke was coming out of the man, out of his stomach, but the gun was coming up again, slowly, agonisingly, as if it weighed a ton, and the bright sting of the spear showed at its mouth. Now the webbed feet were hardly stirring, but the man was slowly sinking down to Bond's level. Suspended straight in the water, he bobbed up and down, looking like the contents of one of those 80s lava lamps. Bond couldn't seem to get his limbs to obey him, they felt leaden, and he shook his head to try to clear it, but his hands and flippers still only moved half consciously, all his speed gone. Now he could see the bared teeth around the other man's rubber mouthpiece as the gun levelled with his head, his throat, his heart. Bond's hands creepy up his chest to protect him while his flippers moved sluggishly, like broken wings, below him.

And then, suddenly, the man was hurled towards Bond as it he had been kicked in the back. His arms spread in a curious gesture of embrace for Bond and the gun tumbled slowly away between them, then disappeared. A puff of black blood spread out into the sea from behind the man's back and his hands wavered out and up in vague surrender, while his head twisted over his shoulder to see what had done this to him.

And there, a few metres behind the man, shreds of his black rubber suit hanging from its jaws, Bond saw the barracuda. It was lying broadside on, seven or eight feet of silver and blue torpedo, and around its jaws there was a thin mist of blood, the taste in the water that had triggered its attack.

Now the great tiger's eye looked coldly at Bond, then downwards at the slowly sinking man. It gave a horrible yawning gulp to rid itself of the shreds of rubber suit, turned lazily three-quarters on, quivered along its entire length, then dived like bolt of white light. It hit the man on the right shoulder with wide open jaws, shook him once furiously, like a dog with a rat, then backed away. Bond felt the vomit rising in his gorge and swallowed it down hastily, then slowly, as if in a dream, he turned away and began swimming with languid, sleepy strokes from the scene.

He had not gone many metres when something hit the surface to his left and the moonlight glinted on a silvery kind of egg that turned lazily over and over as it went down. It meant nothing to Bond, but, two strokes later, he received a violent blow in his stomach that knocked him sideways. It also knocked some sense into him and he began to move fast through the water, at the same time planing downwards towards the bottom. More buffets hit him in quick succession, but the grenades were bracketing the blood patch near the ship's hull and the shock-waves from the explosions became less.

The bottom showed up, and Bond began to swim with all his strength as he realised that at any moment a boat would go over the side and another diver would go down. With any luck he wouldn't find any traces of Bond's visit, and he would conclude that the underwater sentry had been killed by shark or barracuda. It would be interesting to know what Largo would report to the harbour police – difficult to explain the necessity for an armed underwater sentry for a pleasure yacht in a peaceful harbour!

Bond trudged on across the shifting sea-grass, his head aching furiously. Gingerly he put up a hand and felt two great bruises, but the skin felt intact. The cushioning effect of the water, he supposed, without which the two blows from the butt of the gun would have knocked him out. As it was, he still felt half stunned and by the time he reached the end of the sea-grass and the soft white moon landscape with its occasional little volcano puffs from the sea-worms, he felt like he was on the edge of delirium. Wild thoughts and images span around his brain, Vesper and M seeming to change places in his memories.

It took a violent commotion at the edge of his vision to shock him out of his semi-trance, and he saw a great fish, the barracuda, passing him. It seemed to have gone mad, snaking along, biting at its tail, its long body curling and snapping back in a jack-knife motion while its mouth opened wide then shut again in spasms. Bond watched it hurtle away into the grey mist and felt a certain pity that such a wonderful king of the sea should be reduced to this jiggling automaton. There was something obscene about it, like the blind weaving of a punchy boxer before he finally crashes to the canvas, and Bond assumed that one of the exploding grenades had crushed a nerve centre or wrecked some delicate balance mechanism in the fish's brain. It wouldn't last long, he knew, before some other predator came upon it and attacked it in its turn.

Bond saw the grey-slimed motor tyres, the bottles, cans, and scaffolding of the wharf with immense relief. He slid over the shelving sand, then knelt in the shallows, his head down, incapable of carrying the heavy aqualung up the beach; he was an exhausted animal, ready to drop.

_London_

At six thirty that morning M woke from a nightmare that Bond was being eaten alive by a shark with a stifled cry of fright. She lay on her office sofa, one hand over her heart as she willed it to stop racing, and wondered what had brought on such a dream. She couldn't recall ever dreaming about one of her agents before, in fact she rarely remembered her dreams at all. After a few minutes she got up off the sofa and moved across to her desk to check her email account. There was no message from Bond and she sat staring at the laptop for a few minutes, trying to decide whether or not to ring Bond's hotel, or even his private mobile. But she couldn't imagine how she could explain to him why she was breaking his cover by getting in touch. Sighing heavily, she decided to go for her early morning swim, and some breakfast, and give him a couple of hours to get in touch. She just hoped he was in a fit state to contact her, and that he hadn't gone off the grid for some reason.

007-007-007

_Nassau_

Bond found Constable Santos as his side a few moments after he'd all but collapsed by the police wharf. She uttered a quiet exclamation of dismay at the sight of the wound on his head, but didn't make a fuss, as he'd dreaded she might. She helped him to his feet and led him back to the spot where he'd left his clothes, removing the aqualung briskly and efficiently, then handing him a towel with which to dry off before he dressed.

"There was some sort of underwater explosion, with eruptions on the surface, off the starboard side of the _Disco_ ," she observed in a carefully nonchalant tone. "Several men appeared on deck and there was quite a commotion. A boat was lowered on the port side, out of sight of the shore."

"I'm afraid I wasn't aware of that," Bond said, with perfect truth. "I cracked my head against the side of the ship. A damn silly thing to do, I know." He gave her a smile and she smiled uncertainly back. "Anyway, I saw what I wanted to see, banged my head, then swam back. Thank you very much for your time and your assistance." 

He shook hands with her, then walked as carefully and steadily as he could along the side street to where he'd parked Leiter's car. He got to the hotel safely, although his head was throbbing and his body ached, and rang Felix, who came to his room and exclaimed worriedly at the state of his friend.

"You'd better let me clean that up," Leiter said. "You don't want an infection taking hold."

"The skin's not broken," Bond said, a touch impatiently. He wanted to go and see Harling.

"James, please. I won't forgive myself if I let you go running around without cleaning that mess first. You take a look at it? Because it looks pretty filthy."

"All right, all right." Bond subsided because it was easier to let Leiter have his way than to continue objecting. 

"Come into the bathroom," Leiter said, and Bond complied, feeling that what he most wanted right now was a stiff drink, a shower and a week's sleep. He settled for a brisk shower once Leiter had finished, then a double Scotch, followed by a strong coffee. Then he let Leiter drive them both over to police headquarters while he recounted the events that had taken place. He had made up his mind to send M a report of his findings, no matter what the consequences. It was 8am in London and there were less than forty hours to go to zero hour. All his straws added up to half a haystack, he reckoned, and his suspicions were boiling like a pressure cooker – he simply couldn't sit on the lid any longer.

Leiter said decisively, "You do just that. And I'll file a copy to CIA and endorse it. What's more, I'm going to call up the _Manta_ and tell her to get the hell over here."

"You are?" Bond was amazed at this change of tune from his friend. "What's got into you since last night?"

"Well, I was sculling around the casino last night, taking a good look at anyone I thought might be a shareholder or a treasure hunter. They were mostly in groups, standing around trying to put the front of having a good time – sunshine holiday and all that, but they weren't succeeding. Largo was doing all the work, being gay and boyish, while the rest looked like private dicks, or the rest of the Torrio gang just after the St Valentine's Day massacre. Never seen such a bunch of thugs in my life – all dressed up in tuxedos, smoking cigars and drinking champagne – just a glass or two to show the Christmas spirit – orders I suppose. But all of them with that smell one gets to know in the Service: you know, that careful, cold-fish, thinking-of-something-else kinda look that the pros have. Well, none of the faces meant anything to me until I came across a little guy with a furrowed brow and a big egg-head, wearing pebble glasses and looking like a Mormon who'd got into a whorehouse by mistake. He was peering about real nervously and every time one of these others guys spoke to him he blushed and said what a wonderful place it was, and he was having a swell time. I got close enough to hear him say the same thing to two different guys. Rest of the time he just mooned around, sort of helpless and almost sucking a corner of his handkerchief, if you get me." Bond chuckled appreciatively at the image Leiter had conjured. "Well that face meant something to me – I just knew I'd seen it before somewhere. You know how it is. So, after puzzling a bit I went to the reception and told one of the guys behind the desk in a cheery fashion that I thought I'd located an old classmate who'd migrated to Europe, but I couldn't for the life of me remember his name. Very embarrassing as he seemed to recognise me – could the guy help? So he came along and I pointed this feller out, and he went back to desk and checked the membership cards, and came up with the one I wanted. Seemed he was a man called Traut, Emil Traut, Swiss passport. One of Mr Largo's group from the yacht." Leiter paused. "Well, I guess it was the Swiss passport that did it."

He glanced across at Bond. "Remember a fellow called Kotze, East German physicist. Came over to the West just before the end of the Cold War and sang all he knew to the Joint Scientific Intelligence boys? Then he disappeared thanks to a fat payment for the info, and went to ground in Switzerland. That's the same guy – the file went through my hands when I was doing a spell of desk work in Washington. It all came back to me. Of course, it was one hell of a scoop at the time. I only saw his mug on the file, but there's absolutely no doubt in my mind that it's the same man. That man's Kotze, and now what the hell is a top physicist like Kotze doing aboard the _Disco_? Fits, doesn't it?"

They'd reached the police headquarters by now, where lights burned on the ground floor, although the upper floor was dark. Bond waited until they'd reported to the duty sergeant and gone upstairs before he answered. He stood in the middle of the room and looked at Leiter. He said, "That's the clincher, Felix. So what do you think we should do next?"

"With what you got this evening, I'd pull the whole lot in on suspicion. No question at all."

"Suspicion of what? Largo would reach for his lawyer and they'd be out in five minutes thanks to the democratic process of the law. And what single fact have we got that Largo couldn't dodge? All right, so Traut is Kotze. We're hunting for treasure, gentlemen, we need an expert mineralogist, and this man offered his services. Said his name was Traut – no doubt he's still worried about the Russians getting after him. Next question? Yes, we've got an underwater compartment on the _Disco_. We're going to hunt treasure through it. Inspect it? Well, if you must. There you are gentlemen – underwater gear, skids, perhaps even a small bathyscaphe. Underwater sentry? Of course – people have spent six months trying to find out what we're after, how we're going to get it. We're professionals, gentlemen. We like to keep our secrets. And anyway, what was this Mr Bond, this rich gentleman who's looking for a property in Nassau, doing underneath my ship in the middle of the night? Petacchi? Never heard of him. Don't care what Miss Vitali's family name was – always known her as Vitali." 

Bond made a throwaway gesture with one hand. "See what I mean? This treasure hunting cover is perfect. It explains everything, and what are we left with? Largo pulls himself up to his full height and says, 'Thanks, gentlemen. So I may go now? And so I shall, within the hour. I shall find another base for my work and you will be hearing from my lawyers forthwith – wrongful detention and trespass. And good luck to your tourist trade, gentlemen." Bond smiled grimly. "See what I mean?"

Leiter said impatiently, "So what do we do? Limpet mine? Send her to the bottom – in error, so to speak?"

"No, we're going to wait." At the expression on Leiter's face, Bond held up a hand. "We're going to send our reports, in careful guarded terms so we don't get an airborne division landing on Windsor Field, and we're going to say the _Manta_ is all we need. And so it is, because with her we can keep tabs on the _Disco_ just as we please. And we'll stay under cover, keep a hidden watch on the yacht and see what happens. At present we're not suspected, so far as we know. And Largo's plan, if there is one, that is, and don't forget this treasure-hunting business still covers everything perfectly well, is going along all right. All he's got to do now is collect the bombs and make for Target No 1, ready for zero hour in around thirty hours' time. We can do absolutely nothing to him until he's got one or both of those bombs on board, or we catch him at their hiding place. Now, that can't be far away, nor can the bomber, if she's hereabouts. So tomorrow we take that amphibian they've got for us and hunt the area inside a radius of a hundred miles. We'll hunt the seas and not the land because she must be shoal water somewhere, and damned well hidden too. With this calm weather, we should be able to locate her – if she's there. Now, let's talk to Harling, then we can get back, send our reports and get some sleep. And let's say we're out of communication for ten hours – disconnect your phone when we get back, because no matter how carefully we word them, our reports are going to set the Potomac on fire, as well as the Thames."

007-007-007

_London_

M couldn't remember the last time she'd ever been so relieved to hear from an agent as she was to hear from James Bond at nine thirty that morning. With less than two days until the deadline, she'd begun to doubt her own hypothesis, and to wonder if anyone would find the bomber, or the missing bombs, before SPECTRE's deadline.

But Bond's report along with the information he'd repeated from Felix Leiter concerning one Kotze, the former East German scientist, had convinced her that she'd been right all along. Bond had been very frank about his doings since his last report, and while she was glad to know he'd survived his underwater visit to the _Disco_ she was still at a loss to know why she'd been dreaming about him. She sighed heavily, reminding herself that it wasn't important, and called Tanner in to her office to brief him about Bond's latest update. She hoped 007 was going to get some well-earned sleep – she hadn't liked the sound of the blow to the head that he'd received, and she knew that he had a bad habit of running on adrenaline when in the midst of a mission. (She remembered her own bad habit of doing the same back when she'd been a Double-0, too.)

Tanner came in, and M pushed her recollections and worries aside, forcing herself to concentrate on giving him Bond's news. She would have to decide, too, just how much information to report back to Operation _Thunderball_ when they met later. 

007-007-007

_Nassau_

Six hours after Bond had sent his report to M, he and Leiter were out at Windsor Field and the ground crew was hauling the little Amphibian craft out of the hangar with a jeep. They climbed aboard and Leiter was gunning the engines when a uniformed motorcycle dispatch rider came driving uncertainly towards them across the tarmac.

Bond said abruptly, "Get going! Quick! Here comes the paperwork."

Leiter released the brakes and taxied fast towards the single north-south runway. The radio crackled angrily as Leiter took a careful look at the sky, which was clear. He slowly pushed down on the joystick and the little plane snarled its way faster and faster down the concrete and, with a final bump, soared off over the low bush. The radio crackled again, and Leiter reached up and switched it off with a conspiratorial sideways grin at Bond.

He returned it as he sat with the Admiralty chart on his lap. They were flying north, having decided to start with the Grand Bahama group and have a first look at the possible area of Target No 1. They flew at a thousand feet. Below them the Berry Islands were a necklace of brown spits set in cream and emerald and turquoise. 

"See what I mean?" asked Bond. "You can see anything big through that water down to fifty feet. Anything as big as that bomber would have been spotted anywhere on any of the air routes. So I've marked off the areas where there's minimal traffic. They'd have ditched somewhere well out of the way, assuming, and it's a hell of an assumption, that when the _Disco_ made off to the south-east on the night of the third, it was a ruse, it'll be reasonable to hunt to the north and west. She was away eight hours, and two of those would've been spent at anchor doing the salvage work. That leaves six hours' sailing at around thirty knots. Cut an hour off for laying the false trail, and that leaves five. So I've marked off an area from the Grand Bahamas down to the south of the Bimini group. That fits – if anything does."

"Did Harling agree to your request?"

"Yes. He's going to have a couple of good men with day-and-night glasses keeping an eye on the _Disco_. If she moves from her Palmyra anchorage where she's due back at midday, and if we're not back in time, he'll have her shadowed by one of the Bahama Airways charter planes. I got him quite worried with just one or two bits of information, and he wanted to go to the Governor with the story, but I said not yet. He's a good man, just doesn't want too much responsibility without someone else's okay. I used the PM's name to keep him quiet until we get back. He'll play all right." He glanced up at Leiter from his map. "When do you think the _Manta_ could be here?"

"S'evening, I should say." Leiter sounded uneasy. "I must have been drunk last night to have agreed to send for her. Christ, James, we're creating one hell of a flap, and it doesn't look too good in the cold light of dawn." He sighed, then observed, "There's Grand Bahama coming up dead ahead. Want me to give the rocket base a buzz? Prohibited flying area, but we might as well go in up to our ears while we're about it. Just listen to the bawling out we'll be getting in just a minute or two." He reached up and switched the radio back on.

They flew eastwards along the fifty miles of beautiful coast towards what looked like a small city of aluminium hutments amongst which red and white and silver structure rose like small skyscrapers above the low roofs. 

"That's it," Leiter said. "See the yellow warning balloons at the corners of the base? Warning to aircraft and fishermen. There's a flight test on this morning. Better get out to sea a bit and keep south. If it's a full test, they'll be firing towards Ascension Island – about five thousand miles east, off the African coast. We don't want to get a missile up our backsides, do we?"

"No, thanks all the same," Bond said dryly, and Leiter flashed him a grin. 

Above their heads the radio crackled into life, warning them to change course and keep clear of the rocket base.

"Oh hell! No use interfering with world progress. Anyway, we've seen all we wanted to. No good getting the Windsor Field report to add to our troubles." Leiter banked the little plane sharply. "But you see what I mean? If that little heap of ironmongery isn't worth £500,000,000, my name's P. Rick. And it's just about a hundred miles from Nassau. Perfect for the _Disco_."

The radio started again, and they were taken to task for failing to acknowledge the earlier call, and warned that their entry into a prohibited area would be reported. The caller ended with, "Keep flying south and watch out for sudden turbulence. Over," before the radio went silent.

Leiter said, "That means they're going to fire a test."

Bond felt a tightening of his stomach muscles at his friend's words, and agreed to keep watch for the rocket going up. Through his glasses, he could see a wisp of steam coming from the base of the rocket, then a great cloud of steam and smoke, along with a flash of bright light that turned red. Breathlessly, for there was something terrible in the sight, Bond gave a blow-by-blow account to Leiter, leaning back to mop his brow once the rocket had gone out of sight.

"Right, next stop those spits north of Bimini and then a good run down the Bimini Group. Around seventy miles south-west. Keep an eye out because if we miss those dots, we'll end up in the grounds of the Fountain Blue in Miami."

A quarter of an hour later, the tiny necklet of cays showed up, barely above the waterline. There was a lot of shoal, making it an idea hiding place for the plane. They dropped down to a hundred feet and slowly cruised in a zigzag down the group. The water was so clear that Bond could see big fish meandering around the dark clumps of coral and seaweed in the brilliant sand. A big diamond-shaped stingray cowered and buried itself in the sand as the black shadow of the plane shot over it. There was nothing else, and no possibility of concealment for the shoal waters were as clear and innocent as if they had been open desert. The plane flew on south to North Bimini, then on south to the Cat Cays that trailed away south from the Biminis. Here there was still an occasional fishing craft and Leiter groaned, "What the hell's the good of this? These fishermen would've found it by now if it was here."

Bond told him to keep going south where, thirty miles further on, there were little unnamed specks on the Admiralty chart. Soon the dark blue water began to shoal again to green and they passed over three sharks circling aimlessly. Then there was nothing – just dazzling sand under the glassy surface, and occasional patches of coral.

They went on carefully down to where the water turned again to blue, and Leiter said dully, "Well, that's that. Fifty miles on there's Andros. Too many people there – someone would've heard the plane, if there was a plane." He looked at his watch. "11.30. What next, Hawkshaw? I've only got fuel for another two hours' flying."

Something was nagging at Bond's mind, something, some small detail, had raised a tiny question mark in his mind, what was it? And then he had it. Those sharks! What were they doing, circling in about forty feet of water, close to the surface like that? Three of them meant there must be something, something dead, that brought them to that particular patch of sand and coral. Bond said urgently, "Just go back up once more, Felix. Over shoals – there's something – " He left the sentence unfinished as Leiter took the plan into a tight turn and cut down the revs so that they only just kept flying speed about fifty feet above the surface.

Bond opened the door and leaned out, his glasses at short focus. Yes, there were the sharks, two of them on the surface with their dorsals out, and one deep down, nosing at something. As he looked, he realised that it had its teeth into something and was pulling at it. Among the dark and pale patches, a thin straight line showed on the bottom.

Bond shouted, "Get back over again!" The plane zoomed around and came back. Christ! Why did Leiter have to go so fast? But now Bond had seen another straight line on the bottom, leading off at 90 degrees from the first. He flopped back into his seat and banged the door shut. "Put her down over those sharks, Felix," he said quietly. "I think this is it."

Leiter took a quick look at Bond's face, then said, "Christ! Well, I hope I can make it, damned difficult to get a true horizon when this water's like glass." Despite his concerns, he put the plane down carefully with only a slight jerk, and while he was doing so Bond decided that his best course of action was to shoot one of the sharks, so that the other two were distracted away from what he was sure was the plane, leaving him free to investigate without fear of molestation. As he looked, he could see that the straight lines were the edges of a gigantic tarpaulin, which the third shark was trying to shovel its flat head underneath.

"That's it, all right," he told Leiter. "Big camouflaged tarpaulin over her. Take a look." He passed the glasses to his friend, who leaned across him and stared down while Bond's mind raced, considering and discarding possibilities. 

Leiter leaned back, his face shining with excitement. "Well, I'll be goddamned. Boy, oh boy!" He clapped Bond on the shoulder. "We've found it! We've found the goddam plane. Whaddya know? Jesus Kerist!"

Bond gave him a grim smile, then took out his gun and waited for the two sharks to circle around again as they already had done once before. As soon as one was in range, he shot it, then watched as the other two both tore into it in a frenzy, leaving the covered plane free to Bond's inspection as the three shark drifted away with the current.

Bond handed Leiter the gun. "I'll get on down. May be rather a long job. They've got enough to keep them occupied for at least half an hour, but if they come back, wing one. And if for any reason you want me back on the surface, fire straight down at the water and go on firing. The shock-wave should just about reach me."

He began to struggle out of his clothes and, with Leiter's help, into an aqualung. It was a cramped difficult business in the small space of the Amphibian, and getting back onto the plane would be even worse – he'd have to jettison the underwater gear, in all probability. 

"I wish I could come with you," Leiter began, but Bond shook his head. 

"You'll have to keep steam up on this crate. We've already drifted a hundred yards. Get her back up, like a good chap. I don't know who I'm going to find sharing the wreck with me. It's been there a good a five days and other visitors may've moved in first."

Leiter pressed the starter and taxied the plane back into position. "You know the design of this bomber? You know where to look for the bombs and those detonator things the pilot has charge of?"

Bond nodded. "Yes, full briefing in London. Well, so long. Tell Mother I died game!" He scrambled onto the edge of the cockpit and jumped.

As he swam leisurely down through the brilliant water, he thought about his flippant remark to Leiter and it occurred to him that he hadn't given his friend any final words for M. He scowled, wondering why he'd think of that – he took risks like this on every mission without worrying about leaving last words for M. He shook his head to dislodge his disturbing thoughts, and made for the edge of the tarpaulin which the shark had dislodged. He pulled out a couple of the long corkscrew skewers that secured it in the sand, then switched on his waterproof torch and, his other hand on his knife, slipped under the edge. 

He'd expected the water to be foul, but it still made him retch and he clamped his lips more firmly around the mouthpiece, squirming onwards to where the bulk of the plane raised the tarpaulin into a domed tent. He stood up and his torch glistened on the underside of a polished wing, then below it, onto something that lay beneath a scrabbling mass of sea creatures. This, also, Bond had anticipated, and he knelt to his grisly work.

It didn't take long for him to unclip the gold identification disc and the gold wristwatch. He noted the gaping wound under the chin that couldn't have been caused by sea creatures, then turned his torch around and shone it onto the gold disc, which was etched with 'Guiseppe Petacchi. No 15932'. He strapped the two bits of evidence to his own wrists, then went on towards the fuselage. Inside he found it inhabited by dozens of small octopuses, perhaps a hundred in total. Above him, bumping softly in the slight current, hung the decomposing corpse of a crew member, from which hung more octopuses.

Bond forced himself to close his mind to the disgusting sight and proceeded with his search. He quickly found the red-striped cyanide canister and tucked it into his belt, then counted the corpses and noted the open hatch to the bomb bay, verifying that the bombs had, in fact, been removed. He looked in the open container beneath the pilot's seat and searched in alternative places for the bomb fuses, but they were also missing. Finally, having had to slash groping tentacles away from his naked legs a dozen times, he felt his nerve beginning to seep away. There was much he could have taken with him, the identification discs of the crew, the pulp of the log book that showed nothing but routine flight details and no hint of emergency, readings from the instrument panel, but he couldn't stand another second of the squirming, red-eyed inhabitants of this shattered plane. 

Sliding out of the escape hatch, he swam desperately towards the thin line of light that was the edge of the tarpaulin and scrabbled his way under it, snapping the cylinder on his back in the folds so that he had to back under again to free himself. Then he was out in the beautiful crystal water and soaring up to the surface. At twenty feet the pain in his ears reminded him to stop and decompress before he induced a case of the bends. He stared impatiently up at the sweet hull of the seaplane above him, waiting for the pain to subside. Then he was up, clinging to the float and tearing at his equipment to get rid of it and its contamination. He let it all go and watched it tumbling slowly down towards the sand, then rinsed out his mouth, before swimming within reach of Leiter's outstretched hand.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

_Nassau_

As they approached Nassau on their way back, Bond asked Leiter to take a look at the _Disco_ lying off Palmyra. She was there all right, just as she'd been the day before, the only difference being that she only had her bow anchor out now, and Bond couldn't see any way in which this was significant. There was no movement aboard, and he was just thinking that she looked beautiful and quite harmless, lying there, reflecting her elegant lines in the mirror of the sea, when Leiter said excitedly, "Say, James, take a look at the beach place. The boathouse alongside the creek. See those double tracks leading up out of the water? Up to the door of the boathouse? They look odd to me, they're deep – what could've made them?"

Bond focused his glasses, noting that the tracks ran parallel. Something, something heavy, had been hauled between the boathouse and the sea, but it couldn't be, surely it couldn't? "Let's get away quick, Felix," he said tensely, and Leiter responded immediately, zooming off overland. "I'm damned if I can think of anything that could've made those, and dammit, if it was what it might have been, they'd have swept off those tracks pretty quick."

Leiter said laconically, "People make mistakes. We'll have to give that place a going over. Ought to have done it before. Nice looking dump. I think I'll take Mr Largo up on his invitation and get out there on behalf of my esteemed client, Mr Rockefeller Bond."

It was about one o'clock by the time they got back to Windsor Field. For half an hour the control tower had been searching for them on the radio, and now they had to face the commandant of the field and, providentially as it happened, the Governor's ADC, who gave the Governor's blanket authorisation for the string of misdemeanours they'd committed, then handed Bond an envelope containing messages received by the Governor from London and Washington. 

The contents began with the expected rockets for breaking communication and demands for further news. "That they'll get, and how!" Leiter commented as they raced towards Nassau in the comfortable backseat of the Governor's car.

The ETA for the _Manta_ was five o'clock that afternoon, Bond discovered, which news he passed on to Leiter, who looked as green as was possible for someone with his coffee-coloured skin. Bond also learnt that enquiries through Interpol and the Italian police had confirmed that Guiseppe Petacchi was the brother of Dominetta Vitali, whose personal history, as given to Bond, stood up in all other respects. 

The same sources confirmed that Emilio Largo was a big-time adventurer and suspected crook, though technically his record was clean. The source of his wealth was unknown, but didn't stem from funds held in Italy, and the _Disco_ had been paid for with Swiss Francs. The constructors had confirmed the existence of the underwater compartment, and reported that it contained an electric hoist and provision for launching small underwater craft and releasing skin-divers. In Largo's specifications, this modification to the hull had been given as a requirement for underwater research.

Bond learned that deeper enquiries into the 'shareholders' had yielded no further facts – with the significant exception that most of their backgrounds and professions dated back no further than six years, suggesting the possibility that their identities might be of recent fabrication and, at any rate in theory, this would equate with possible membership of SPECTRE, if such a body truly existed.

Kotze, it appeared, had left Switzerland four weeks previously for an unknown destination, and the latest photographs of the man were included with the messages. In light of all the foregoing, M reported, the _Thunderball_ War Room were no longer so willing to accept the solidity of Largo's cover, but until further evidence came to hand, the worldwide search for SPECTRE would continue. However, priority would be given to the Bahamas area, and in view of this, and the extremely urgent time factor, Brigadier Fairchild, CB, DSO, British Military Attaché in Washington, and Rear Admiral Carlson, USN Ret., until recently Secretary to the US Chiefs of Staff Committee, would be arriving at 1900 EST in a Boeing 707, to take command of further operations. The full cooperation of Messrs Bond and Leiter was requested and, until the arrival of the above named officers, full reports every hour on the hour were to be sent to London, copied to Washington, under joint signature.

Leiter looked at Bond as he finished speaking. There was a long silence before Leiter finally said, "James, I propose we disregard the last bit and take formal note of the remainder. We've already missed four hours and I don't propose to spend the rest of the day sitting over a laptop when there's so much to be done. Tell you what, we'll send them the latest news, then say we're going off air in view of the new emergency. I then propose that I go and looked over Palmyra on your behalf, sticking to our cover story. And I propose to have a damned good look at the boathouse and see what those tracks mean. Right? Then, at five, we'll rendezvous with the _Manta_ and prepare to intercept the _Disco_ if and when she sails. As for the Big Brass in the President's Special, well, they can just play cards in Government House until tomorrow morning. Tonight's the night, and we just can't waste it on the 'After you Alphonse' routine. Okay?"

Bond reflected. They were coming into the outskirts of Nassau, through the shanty-town slums tucked away behind the millionaire façade, along the waterfront. He had disobeyed many orders in his career, but this was to disobey the Prime Minister of England and the President of the United States – a mighty left and right. But things were moving a damned sight faster than they'd anticipated, and M had given him his territory and, right or wrong, she would back him up, as she always backed up her staff, even if meant M's own head on a platter. 

After a long moment, Bond said, "I agree, Felix. With the _Manta_ on hand, we can manage this on our own. The vital thing is to find out when those bombs go aboard the _Disco_. I've got an idea for that, which may or may not work. It'll mean giving the Vitali girl a rough time, but it can't be helped. I'll meet you back at the hotel around four thirty. I'll ring Harling and see if he's got anything new on the _Disco_ and ask him to pass the word on to you if anything's cooking. You've got all that straight about the plane?" Leiter nodded. "Okay, I'll hang onto Petacchi's identification disc for the time being. Be seeing you."

They parted ways in the hotel lobby, which Bond hurried through, collecting a telephone message along with his key at the reception desk. He read the message in the lift and found it was from Domino asking him to please ring her quickly.

In his room, Bond ordered a sandwich and a double Scotch on the rocks, then called the Police Commissioner. The _Disco_ had been moved to the oiling wharf at first light and filled her tanks, then moved back to her anchorage off Palmyra. Half an hour ago, at one thirty precisely, the seaplane had been lowered over the side and, with Largo and one other aboard, had taken off eastwards. When the Commissioner had heard this on the radio from his watchers, he'd got onto the control tower at Windsor Field and asked for the plane to be radar-tracked, but she had flown low, at about 300 feet, and they'd lost her among the islands about fifty miles to the south-east. Nothing else had come up except that the harbour authorities had been alerted to expect an American submarine, the _Manta_ , the nuclear-powered one, at around five in the evening. That was all. What did Bond know?

He replied carefully that it was too early to tell, but it looked as if the operation was hotting up, and could the watchers be asked to rush the news back as soon as the seaplane was sighed coming back to the _Disco_. This was vital. And would the Commissioner please pass on his news to Felix Leiter as he, Bond, had to go out shortly. And could Bond borrow a car – anything – to drive himself? He agreed that a Land Rover would be fine, he just needed something with four wheels and an engine.

007-007-007

_London_

When she got Bond's hasty report confirming that he'd found the downed bomber, M immediately contacted the PM, who called an emergency meeting of Operation _Thunderball_. M had allowed herself one moment of triumph at Bond's vindication of her hypothesis, but she made sure nothing of that showed in her expression or voice as she recounted Bond's findings to the others. She was aware of Mallory's eyes on her, his expression a mixture of relief and disbelief (she wasn't sure if the latter was because she'd been proved right, or because Bond had managed to find the plane before SPECTRE's deadline had run out).

She wondered, briefly, if Bond would find a way to ignore the PM's ruling that more senior men should take charge of the mission, and decided that she would back him to the hilt if he did. She felt that the men in the field, James Bond and Felix Leiter, had done all the hard work and deserved to finish the mission.

007-007-007

_Nassau_

Bond rang Domino at Palmyra and noted that she seemed eager to talk to him.

"Where have you been all morning, James?" she asked, almost breathlessly. He registered that this was the first time she'd used his first name. "I want you to come swimming this afternoon," she went on, without waiting for his answer. "I have been told to pack and come on board this evening. Emilio says they are going after the treasure tonight. Isn't it nice of him to take me. But it's a dead secret, so don't tell anyone, will you? He's vague about when we'll be back, he said something about Miami. I thought – " She hesitated, then continued, "I thought you might have gone back to New York by the time we get back. I've seen so little of you – you left so suddenly last night. What was it?"

"I suddenly got a headache – touch of the sun, I suppose. It had been quite a day. I didn't want to leave. I'd love to come for a swim if you want my company. Where?"

She gave him careful directions to a beach a mile further along the coast from Palmyra. There was a side road and a thatched hut, which he couldn't miss, and the beach was better than Palmyra's – the skin-diving was more fun. There were also fewer people around. The beach, she explained, belonged to a Swedish millionaire who'd gone away. She asked when he could get there, and when Bond told her half an hour, she said that would be all right, they would have more time – on the reef, that is.

Bond's drink and sandwich came and he sat and consumed them, staring blankly out of the window as he considered the girl. He could, he knew, soften the blow of what he was going to tell her about her brother, as he was fairly certain that she'd accept him seducing her, but he also knew that to do so, then give the bad news, would make him feel bad, as if he'd taken advantage of her. He was beginning to find that idea distasteful; it was one thing to seduce a woman to get to a mark, but he had a feeling Domino would do what he wanted to ask of her without sex taking place.

He rolled his swimming trunks into a towel, put on a clean, dark blue sea-island cotton shirt and a fresh pair of linen slacks, slung Leiter's Geiger counter over his shoulder, and glanced at himself in the mirror. He looked exactly like any other tourist with a camera. He grabbed his sunglasses, then checked in his trouser pocket to make sure he had the ID bracelet, before going downstairs.

Bond found the hut, just as Domino had told him – a Robinson Crusoe affair of plaited bamboo and screw-pine with a palm thatch whose wide eaves threw black shadows. Inside were two changing rooms labelled HIS and HERS. Hers contained a small pile of soft clothes and the white sandals he'd seen her wearing the first time they'd met. Bond changed and walked down the beach to the sea; of the girl there was no sign. He took a few steps through the shallows, then dived deep, relishing the coolness of the depths, and stayed down as long as he could, before surfacing and swimming out to sea using a lazy crawl. There was still no sign of Domino, so he made his way back to the beach, then lay down on his stomach, cradling his face in his arms.

Minutes later something made Bond open his eyes and he saw a thin trail of bubbles coming towards him across the middle of the bay. When it passed over the dark blue into the green, Bond could see the yellow single cylinder of the aqualung tank and the glint of a mask with a fan of dark hair streaming out behind. The girl beached herself in the shallows, raised herself on one elbow, then lifted the mask. She said in severe tones, "Don't just lie there dreaming. Come and rescue me."

Bond got to his feet and walked the few steps to where she lay. "You oughtn't to aqualung by yourself. What's happened – has a shark been lunching on you?"

"Don't make silly jokes. I've got some sea-egg spines in my foot, and you'll have to get them out somehow. First of all get this aqualung off me – it hurts too much to stand on my foot with all this weight on my back." She reached for the buckle at her stomach and released the catch. "Now just lift it off."

Bond did as he was told and carried the cylinder up into the shade of the trees, leaving her sitting in the shallow water inspecting the sole of her right foot. She said, "There are only two of them. They're going to be difficult."

Bond knelt beside her and looked at the two black spots, close together, that were almost under the curl of her middle toes. He got up and held out a hand. "Come on, we'll get into the shade as this is going to take time. Don't put your foot down or you'll push them in deeper. I'll carry you."

She laughed up at him. "My hero! All right, but don't drop me." She held up both arms and Bond reached down, putting one arm under her knees and the other under her armpits. She slipped her arms around his neck as he easily lifted her up. For a moment he stood in the lapping water, looking down into her upturned face and saw the permission in her bright eyes. He bent his head and kissed her hard on her half-open, waiting mouth.

For a long moment the soft lips held his, then drew slowly away. She said rather breathlessly, "You shouldn't take your reward in advance."

"No more I should," he agreed, and walked up out of the water and up the beach into the shade of the casuarinas. He laid her gently down on the soft sand and she put her hands behind her head to keep the sand out of her straggling hair; she lay waiting, her eyes half hidden behind the dark mesh of her eyelashes.

The mounded vee of her bikini looked up at Bond and the small breasts in the tight cups were like two more eyes. Bond felt his groin tightening and told her, in rough voice, to turn over.

She did as she was told and he knelt down, picking up her right foot, which was small and soft, and felt like a captured bird in his hand. He wiped away the specks of sand and uncurled her toes; holding them out of the way, he bent his head and put his lips to where the broken ends of the black spines showed. He sucked hard for about a minute, before spitting out a small piece of grit that had got into his mouth, then said, "This is going to be a long business unless I hurt you a little. Ready?"

He saw the muscles of her behind clench to take the pain, then she said, dreamily, "Yes."

Bond sank his teeth into the flesh around the spines, bit as gently as he could, and sucked hard. He paused to spit out some fragments, and noted the marks of his teeth showed white against her skin, and there were two pinpoints of blood at the two tiny holes. A minute or two later he spat out the last fragment of spine and gently laid down her foot. "That's it, all done." 

She rolled over and he saw her lashes with wet with the tears of her small pain. She wiped a hand over her eyes, then said seriously, looking up at him, "Do you know, you're the first man who's ever made me cry." She held up her arms and he saw complete surrender in her eyes. 

Bond bent and picked her up, but he didn't kiss her mouth this time; he carried her to the door of the hut and into HERS. He knew Domino was expecting him to make love to her, but he couldn't do it, not with the knowledge of her brother's death hanging over him. He set her down on her feet, then held her shoulders. "You'd better get dressed," he said gently. "I need to talk to you."

She pouted up at him, then saw he was serious and her expression turned dark. "I hate you."

"I know," Bond said. "But there's something important I need to tell you, and – " he hesitated a moment, then added, "It's about your brother."

She stilled, then turned to slip her feet into her sandals, and Bond left her to dress while he changed into his own clothes. They went outside and he found a spot in the shade where they could sit and talk. He sat staring out to sea, his arms around his knees, the ID bracelet tucked into his right hand. She sat down beside him, but not close, and said stiffly, "You are going to hurt me. Be quick and do it cleanly. I will not cry."

Bond uncurled his hand and held out the bracelet to her. She took it silently, then turned a little away from him as she spoke, "So, he is dead. What happened to him?"

"It's a bad story, and a very big one. It involves your friend Largo, and it is a very great conspiracy." He sighed slightly, then continued. "I am here to find out things for my government. I'm really a kind of policeman. I am telling you this, and I will tell you the rest, because hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of people will die unless you can help me to prevent it. That's why I had to show you the bracelet, so you would believe me. I'm breaking an oath in telling you this, and whatever happens, whatever you decide to do, you must promise not to tell anyone else what I'm about to tell you." He touched her shoulder and she looked back at him. "I trust you to keep this a secret."

"That is why you would not make love to me," she said, "even though you wanted me, and I wanted you."

He nodded. "Your brother was killed by Largo, or on his orders," he began, then went back to the beginning and explained slowly and carefully, everything that had occurred. He omitted any mention of the _Manta_ , since that was the one factor that could now be of help to Largo and perhaps alter his plans. 

He ended by saying, "So, you see, there is nothing we can do until those weapons are actually aboard the _Disco_. Until that moment comes, Largo has the perfect alibi with his treasure hunt story. There is nothing to link him with the crashed plane or with SPECTRE. If we interfere with him now, this moment, arrest him or stop the ship from sailing, there will only be a delay in the SPECTRE plan. Only Largo and his people know where the bombs are hidden. If the plane has gone for them, it will be keeping contact with the _Disco_ by radio, and if there's any hitch, the plane can leave the bombs at the hiding place, or in another, or dump them in shallow water anywhere, and return for them when the trouble has blown over. Even if the _Disco_ was taken off the job, some other shop or plane could be used later, and SPECTRE headquarters, wherever they are, will inform the Prime Minister that there has been a change of plan. Or they might say nothing at all, then weeks later, send another communication, and give less time, perhaps only twenty-four hours' notice, for the money to be dropped. The terms will be tougher, and we'll have to accept them. So long as those bombs are lost to us, the threat remains. Do you see that?"

"Yes. So what is to be done?" The girl's tone was fierce and she stared off into the distance seeing, he was sure, not Largo the great conspirator, but Largo who had had her brother killed.

"We've got to know when those bombs are on board the _Disco_ , that's all that matters. Then we can act with all our weight behind us, and we have one great factor on our side, Largo still believes in his wonderful plan, he still feels secure, because he doesn't know, yet, that we suspect him."

"So how will you know when the bombs come aboard the yacht?"

"You must tell us," Bond said simply.

"But how will I know? And how will I tell you?"

He showed her the Geiger counter, and explained slowly and carefully how it worked, then made her repeat it back to him. Then he arranged with her that she would show herself up on deck once she knew the bombs were aboard, and he told her to dump the Geiger counter over the side so that she wouldn't be found with it.

"What happens now? When shall I see you again?" she asked when he'd finished.

Bond had dreaded this question; by sending her back aboard the _Disco_ , and with the Geiger counter, he knew he was putting her in double danger. She could be found out by Largo, in which case, her death would almost certainly be immediate. If it came to a chase, which seemed almost inevitable, the _Manta_ would sink the _Disco_ by gunfire or torpedo, probably without warning. Bond had added up all these factors, and had closed his mind to them. He kept it closed now as he said, "As soon as this is over, I'll look for you wherever you are. But now you're going into danger. You know this. Do you still want to go on with it?"

She looked at her watch, then said, "It is half past four. I must go. Don't come with me to the car. Just kiss me once and then stay here. Don't worry about what you want done. I will do it and do it well. It is either that or a stiletto in the back for this man." She held out her arms. "Come."

A few minutes later, Bond heard the engine of the MG come to life, and he waited until the sound had receded into the distance down the Western Coast road before he went to the Land Rover and climbed in to follow. 

He drove fast down the road to Old Fort Point where the police watchers were housed in the garage of a deserted villa. One man was reading a paperback in a canvas chair while the other sat before the tripod binoculars with which they kept watch through the blinds covering a side window. There was a khaki radio set between them on the floor. Bond gave them a new briefing, then got onto the radio with the Police Commissioner and confirmed it with him. Harling passed on two messages from Leiter, one was to the effect that the visit to Palmyra had been negative except that a servant had said the girl's baggage had gone aboard the _Disco_ that afternoon. The boathouse was completely innocent, containing only a glass-bottomed boat and a pedalo. The pedalo would have made the tracks they'd seen from the air. The second message said that the _Manta_ was expected in twenty minutes and asked Bond to meet Leiter at the Prince George Wharf, where she would dock.

The _Manta_ , coming with infinite caution up-channel, had none of the elegance of the conventional submarine. She was a blunt, thick and ugly metal cucumber with her rounded nose shrouded in tarpaulin to hide the secrets of her radar scanner from the Nassauvians. She held no suggestion of speed, which Leiter said was around forty knots, submerged. "But they won't tell you that, James. That's Classified. I guess we're going to find that even the paper in the john is Classified when we get aboard. Watch out for these Navy guys; these days they're so tight-lipped that they think even a sneeze is a security risk."

"What else do you know about her?"

Leiter gave him a quick run down of the sub's capabilities, and Bond asked, "Has she got anything smaller than the nuclear missiles? If we're going to do a job on the _Disco_ , what are we going to use?"

"She's got six torpedo tubes up front, and I daresay some smaller stuff, too – machine guns and so forth. The trouble's going to be getting the commander to fire them. He's not going to like firing on an unarmed civilian yacht on the orders of a couple of plain-clothes guys, and one of them a Limey at that. Hope his orders from the Navy Department are as solid as mine and yours."

The huge submarine bumped gently against the wharf, and lines were thrown and an aluminium gangplank was run ashore. There was a ragged cheer from the crowd of watchers being held back by a cordon of the police. 

Leiter said, "Well, here we go. And to one hell of a bad start when we haven't a hat between us to salute the quarter deck. You curtsy, I'll bow."

007-007-007

The inside of the submarine was roomier than any of the Royal Navy ones Bond had served aboard, and there were stairs, not a ladder, down into the interior. There was no clutter and the paintwork was a two-tone green, with the various powerlines painted in vivid colours which provided a cheerful contrast. Preceded by an officer of the watch, a young man of about twenty-eight, they went down two decks. The air (21C with 46% humidity, explained the officer) was beautifully cool. At the bottom of the stairs he turned left and knocked on a door which said 'Commander P Pedersen, USN'.

The captain looked about forty and had a square, rather Scandinavian face, with a black crew-cut just going grey. He had shrewd, humorous eyes, but a dangerous mouth and jaw. He was sitting at a neat metal desk, smoking a pipe and there was an empty coffee cup in front of him, together with a signal pad, on which he'd just been writing. He got up and shook hands, waving them into two chairs in front of his desk before saying to the officer of the watch, "Coffee, please, Stanton, and have this sent, would you?" He tore the top sheet off the signal pad and handed it across. "Most immediate."

He sat down. "Well, gentlemen. Welcome aboard. Commander Bond, it's a pleasure to have a member of the Royal Navy visit the ship. Ever been in subs before?"

"I have," Bond answered, "but only for a year before I volunteered for the Special Boat Service."

"And you, Mr Leiter?"

"No, Captain, but I used to have one of my own. You operated it with a sort of rubber bulb and tube. Trouble was, they'd never let me have enough depth of water in the bath to see what she could really do."

The captain laughed. "Sounds rather like the Navy Department. They'll never let me try this ship full out, except once in trials. Every time you want to get going, the needle comes across a damn red line some interfering so-and-so has painted on the dial. Well, gentlemen," the captain's expression sobered as he looked from Bond to Leiter, "what's the score? Haven't had such a flood of Top Secret Most Immediates since I don't know when. I don't mind telling you that the last one was from the Chief of the Navy, Personal. Said I was to consider myself under your orders, Mr Leiter, or, on your death or incapacity, under Commander Bond's until Admiral Carlson arrives at 1900 this evening. So what's cooking? All I know is that all the signals have been prefixed Operation Thunderball. What is this operation?"

Bond had taken a great liking to Commander Pedersen; he liked his ease and humour and, in general – recalling the old Navy phrase – the cut of his jib. Now he watched the solid, good-humoured face as Leiter told his story down to the departure of Largo's amphibian at 1.30, and the instructions Bond had given to Domino Vitali. After ten minutes, Pedersen sat back, reached for his pipe, and began filling it absentmindedly.

He said, "Well, that's one hell of a story." He smiled. "And, strangely enough, even if I hadn't had these signals from the Navy Department, I'd believe it. Now, we've got just one small piece of a problem on our hands – small, but as big as the world. So what are we to do? As I see it, the idea of you gentlemen is that this man Largo will be coming back any minute now in his plane after picking up the bombs from wherever he hid them. If he's got the bombs, and on what you've told me, I'll go along with the probability that he has, the girl will give us the tip-off. Then we close in and arrest his ship or blow it out of the water, right? But supposing he hasn't got the bombs on board or, for one reason or another, we don't get the tip-off, what do we do then?"

Bond said quietly, "We follow him, sit close on his tail, until the deadline, that's about twenty-four hours from now, is up. That's all we can do without causing one hell of a legal stink. When the deadline's up, we can hand the whole problem back to our governments and they can decide what to do with the _Disco_ and the sunken plane and all the rest. By that time, some little man in a speedboat we've never heard of may have left one of the bombs off the coast of America, and Miami may have gone up in the air. Or there may have been a big bang somewhere else in the world. There's been plenty of time to take those bombs off the plane and get them thousands of miles away. Well, that'll be too bad, and we'll have screwed things up, but at this moment we're in the position of a detective watching a man he thinks is going to commit a murder. Doesn't even know for sure whether he's got a gun, or not, so there's nothing the detective can do but follow the man and wait until he actually pulls the gun out of his pocket and points it. Then, and only then, can the detective shoot the man or arrest him." He turned to Leiter. "Isn't that about it, Felix?"

"That's how it figures. And Captain, Commander Bond here and I are damn sure that Largo's our man, and that he'll be sailing for his target in no time at all. That's why we agreed to hurry you along. The odds are that he'll be placing the bomb at night, and tonight's the last night he's got. By the way, Captain, have you got steam up, or whatever the atom boys call it?"

"I have, and we can be under way in just about five minutes." The captain shook his head. "But there's one bit of bad news for you, gentlemen. I just can't figure out how we're going to keep track of the _Disco_."

"How's that? You've got the speed, haven't you?" Leiter's tone was a growl, which made Bond hide a smile.

The captain, however, didn't bother to hide his smile. "Guess so. Guess we cold give her a good race on a straight course, but you gentlemen don't seem to have figured on the navigational hazards in this part of the ocean." He pointed to the British Admiralty chart on the wall. "Take a look at that? Ever seen a chart with so many figures on it? Looks like a spilled ants' nest. Those are soundings, gentlemen, and I can tell you that unless the _Disco_ sticks to one of the deep-water channels, we've had it. All the rest of that area" – he waved a hand – "may look the same blue colour on the map, but after your own trip in that amphibian, you'll know damn well that it isn't the same blue colour. There are banks and shoals all over the place, and that map dates back to the days of sail, and these banks have been shifting in the decades since it was drawn up. I'm afraid, gentlemen, that this Italian vessel was very well chosen. With that hydrofoil device of hers, she probably doesn’t draw more than a fathom. If she chooses to keep to the shallows, we just haven't got a chance. And that's flat." The captain looked from Leiter to Bond and back again. "Want me to call up the Navy Department and have Fort Lauderdale take over with those fighter bombers they've got on call – get them to do a shadowing job?"

The two men looked at each other. Bond said, "She won't be showing lights. They'll have a hell of a job picking her up at night. What do you say, Felix? Maybe we'd better call them out, even if it's only to keep some sort of watch off the American coast? Then, if the Captain's willing, we'll take the North-West Channel – if the _Disco_ sails, that is – and bank on the Bahamas Rocket Station being Target No 1."

Felix Leiter ran his hand through his short dark hair, then said, "Goddammit! Hell, yes, I suppose so. We're looking fools enough already bringing the _Manta_ on stage – what's a squadron of planes? Sure. We've just _got_ to back our hunch that it's Largo and the _Disco_. Come on, let's get a signal off that doesn't look too damned silly – copy to CIA and to your Chief? How do you want it to go?"

"Admiralty for M, prefixed Operation Thunderball." Bond swiped a hand down his face. "God, this going to put the cat among the pigeons." He looked up at the big metal wall clock. "Six. That'll be midnight in London. Popular time to get a signal like this." He knew M would probably still be in her office, even if her husband hadn't just died, she'd have stayed overnight with the deadline so close.

The ship's PA system spoke clearly, "Watch Officer to Captain. Police officer with urgent message for Commander Bond." The captain pressed a switch and spoke into a desk microphone. "Bring him below. Prepare to cast off lines. All hands prepare for sailing." The captain waited for the acknowledgement, then released the switch, before smiling across at them. "What's the name of that girl?" he asked Bond. "Domino?" He got a nod. "Well, Domino, say the good word."

The door opened and a police corporal, his hat off, crashed to attention and extended a stiff arm. Bond took the buff envelope he proffered and slit it open. He ran his eyes down the pencilled message signed by Harling, the Police Commissioner. Unemotionally he read aloud:

"PLANE RETURNED 1730 HOISTED INBOARD. DISCO SAILED AT 1755, FULL SPEED COURSE NORTH WEST STOP GIRL DID NOT REPEAT NOT REAPPEAR ON DECK AFTER BOARDING."

Bond borrowed a signal blank from the captain and wrote:

MANTA WILL ENDEAVOUR SHADOW VIA NORTHWEST PROVIDENCE CHANNEL STOP FIGHTER BOMBER SQUADRON FROM FORT LAUDERDALE WILL BE ASKED THROUGH NAVY DEPARTMENT TO COOPERATE WITHIN RADIUS OF TWO HUNDRED MILES OFF FLORIDA COAST STOP MANTA WILL KEEP CONTACT THROUGH WINDSOR FIELD AIR CONTROL STOP NAVY DEPARTMENT AND ADMIRALTY BEING INFORMED STOP PLEASE INFORM GOVERNOR ALSO ADMIRAL CARLSON AND BRIGADIER FAIRCHILD ON ARRIVAL.

Bond signed the message and passed it to the captain, who also signed, as did Leiter. Bond put the message in an envelope and gave it to the corporal, who wheeled smartly and clanked out in his heavy boots.

When the door was shut, the captain pressed down the switch on the intercom, and gave orders to sail, surfaced, course due north at ten knots. Then he switched off. In the short silence that followed there was a flurry of background noise audible via the PA system: piping and bosuns' whistles, a thin mechanical whine, and the sound of running feet. The submarine trembled slightly and the captain said, quietly, "Well, gentlemen, that's that. I'd like to have the goose a bit less wild and a bit more solid, but I'll be glad to chase her for you. Now then, that signal."

With only half his mind on the wording of the signal, Bond sat and worried about the significance of the Commissioner's message and about Domino. It looked bad for the girl. Either the plane had not brought back the two bombs, or one of them, in which case the mobilisation of the _Manta_ and the fighter bombers was a meaningless precaution, hardly justified by the evidence. It could easily be that the crashed bomber and its missing weapons were the work of some entirely different group and that, while they chased the _Disco_ , the field was being left clear for SPECTRE. But Bond's instincts refused to allow him to accept this possibility. As cover, the whole _Disco_ -Largo set up was one hundred percent watertight. It could not be faulted in any respect and that, in itself, was enough to arouse Bond's suspicions. A plot of this magnitude and audacity could only have been conceived under faultless cover and down to the smallest detail. Largo could have just set off on his treasure hunt and everything, down to the last minute plane recce of the treasure location to see if there were any fishing boats about, for instance, fitted in with that possibility. Or he could be sailing to lay the bomb, adjust the time fuse for perhaps a few hours after the deadline to allow time for its recovery or destruction if England and America agreed to pay the ransom at the last moment, and get far enough away from the danger area to avoid the explosion and establish an alibi. But where was the bomb? Had it arrived aboard in the plane, and had Domino for some reason been unable to go up on deck to make her signal? 

Or was the bomb going to be picked up en route to the target area? The westerly course from Nassau, heading perhaps for the North-West Light, through the Berry Island Channel, fitted both possibilities. The sunken plane lay westwards, south of the Biminis, and so did Miami and other possible targets on the American coast. Or, after passing through the channel, about fifty miles west of Nassau, the _Disco_ could veer sharply northwards and, after another fifty miles of sailing through shoal water that would discourage pursuit, get back into the North-West Providence Channel and make straight for the Grand Bahamas and the missile station.

Bond sat, fretting with indecision and the fear that he and Leiter were making majestic fools of themselves, then forced himself to face one certainty – he and Leiter and the _Manta_ were engaged on a crazy gamble. If the bomb was aboard, if the _Disco_ veered north for the Grand Bahamas and the missile station, then, by racing up the North-West Channel, the _Manta_ might intercept her in time.

But if this gamble came off, with all its possibilities of error, why hadn't Domino made her signal? All Bond could think was that someone had spotted her, had worked out what she was doing with the Geiger counter, and she had been captured, and was now, in all probability dead. It wasn't a thought he relished, even though he'd known he was sending her into immense danger.

Sighing, he turned his full attention to the others, read over the signal they'd composed, then sat back to wonder what M was going to make of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think there's one more chapter after this - and then I'll be into the inter-mission Interlude, which will be very Bond/M-centric, before I begin part 2, and Bond's personal encounter with Blofeld.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter turned out insanely long, so I've split it in two and will post both tonight.

Chapter Nine

_Aboard the Disco_

The _Disco_ , a dark torpedo leaving a deep, briefly creaming wake, hurtled across the indigo mirror of the sea. Down in the big stateroom there was silence save for the dull boom of the engines and the soft tinkle of a glass on the sideboard. Although, as a precaution, the storm shutters were battened down over the portholes, the only light inside came from a single port navigation lantern hung from the roof. The dim red light only just illuminated the faces of the eighteen men and two women around the long table, and the red-and-black shadowed features, contorting with the slight sway of the top light, gave the scene the appearance of a conspiracy in hell. 

At the top of the table Largo, his face, though the cabin was air-conditioned, shone with sweat as he began to speak. His voice was tense and hoarse with strain. "I have to report that we are in a state of emergency. Half an hour ago, No 17 found Miss Vitali in the well deck where she was standing, fiddling with a camera. When No 17 came upon her, she lifted the camera and pretended to take a photograph of Palmyra, although the safety cap was over the lens, which made No 17 suspicious. He reported to me and I went below and took her to her cabin. She struggled with me and had her whole attitude aroused my suspicions. I was forced to subdue her by drastic measures, after which I took the camera and examined it." Largo paused, then said quietly, "The camera was a fake, it concealed a Geiger counter. The counter was, very naturally, registering the presence of the atomic weapons we are now carrying. I brought her back to consciousness and questioned her, but she refused to talk. In due course I shall force her to do so, and then she will be eliminated. It was time to sail so I again rendered her unconscious and secured her in her bunk. I have now summoned this meeting to acquaint you with the facts of this occurrence, which I have already reported to No 2."

Largo was silent and a threatening, exasperated growl came from around the table. No 14, one of the Germans, said through his teeth, "And what, Mister No 1, did No 2 have to say about this?"

"He said we were to carry on. He said the whole world is full of Geiger counters looking for us at the moment. The secret services of the whole world have been mobilised against us and some busybody in Nassau, the police probably, was perhaps ordered to have a radiation search made of all ships in harbour. Perhaps Miss Vitali was bribed to bring the counter on board, but No 2 said that once we have placed the weapon in the target area there will be nothing to fear. I have had the radio operator listening for unusual traffic between Nassau and the Coast. The density is quite normal – if we were suspected, Nassau would be deluged with wireless traffic from London and Washington, but all is quiet. So the operation will proceed as planned. When we are well away from the area, we will dispose of the lead casing of the weapon, and the lead casing will contain Miss Vitali."

No 14 persisted. "But you will first obtain the truth from this woman? It is not pleasant for our future plans to think that we may be under suspicion."

"Interrogation will begin as soon as this meeting is over. If you want my opinion, those two men who came aboard yesterday – this Bond and the man Larkin – may be involved. They may be secret agents – the so-called Larkin had a camera, which I did not look at closely, but it was similar to that possessed by Miss Vitali. I blame myself for not having been more careful with these two men, but their story was convincing. On our return to Nassau tomorrow morning, we shall have to be circumspect. Miss Vitali will have fallen overboard – I will work out the details of the story. There will be an inquest, which will be an irritation, nothing more. Our witnesses will be unshakeable. It will be wise to use the coins as additional alibi for our whereabouts tonight. No 5, is the state of the erosion of the coins satisfactory?"

No 5, a Serbo-Croatian scientist, said judiciously, "It is no more than adequate, but they will pass examination, a cursory examination. They are authentic doubloons and Reals of the early seventeenth century – sea water has little effect on gold and silver so I have used a little acid to pit them. They will, of course, have to be handed to the coroner and declared as treasure trove, but it would need a far greater expert than he or the court to pass judgement on them. There will be no compulsion to reveal the location of the treasure. We could, perhaps, give the depth of the water – ten fathoms, let us say, and an unspecified reef. I see no means by which our story could be upset as there is often very deep water outside reefs. Miss Vitali could have had trouble with her aqualung, and could have been seen disappearing over a deep shelf where our echo-sounder gave the depth as a hundred fathoms. We did our best to dissuade her from taking part in the search for the treasure, but she was an expert swimmer, and the romance of the occasion made her wish to be involved." 

No 5 shook her head decisively. "I see no reason to be dismayed by this occurrence. But I am in favour of a most rigorous interrogation." No 5 turned her head politely towards Largo, the red light glinted off her dark hair. "There are certain uses of electricity of which I have knowledge – the human body cannot resist them, so if I can be of any service – ?" She left the question hanging and Largo was equally polite in responding – they might have been discussing remedies for a seasick passenger.

"Thank you, I have means of persuasion which I have found very satisfactory in the past, but I shall certainly call upon you if the case is an obstinate one." Largo looked down the table into the shadowed, ruby faces. "And now we will quickly run through the final details." He glanced down at his watch. "It is midnight. There will be two hours' moonlight starting at 3am. The first light of dawn will be shortly after 5am. We thus have two hours for the operation. Our course will bring us in towards West End from the south. This is a normal entry to the islands, and even if our further progress towards the target area is noted by the missile station radar, it will only be assumed that we are a yacht that has strayed slightly off course. We shall anchor at exactly 3am and the swimming party will leave for the half-mile swim to the laying point. The fifteen of you who will be taking part in this swim will, as arranged, swim in arrow formation, the Chariot and the sled with the missile in the centre. Formation must be strictly kept to avoid straying. The blue torch on my back should be an adequate beacon, but if any man gets lost, he returns to the ship. Is that understood?"

Largo paused for a murmur of agreement from around the table, before continuing, "The first duty of the escort will be to watch for shark and barracuda, and I will again remind you that the range of your guns is not much more than twenty feet, and that fish must be hit in or behind the head. Any man who is about to fire must warn his neighbour, who will then stand by to give additional fire if required. However, one hit should be sufficient to kill if the curare is, as we have been informed, unaffected by the passage through sea water. Above all," Largo put his hands decisively down on the table before him, "do not forget to remove the small protective sheath from the barb before firing." He raised his hands. "You will forgive me for repeating these points. We have had many exercises in similar conditions and I have confidence that all will be well, but the underwater terrain will be unfamiliar and the effect of the Dexedrine pills – they be issued to the swimming party after this meeting – will be to sensitise the nervous system as well as provide extra stamina and encouragement. So we must all be prepared for the unexpected and know how to handle it. Are there any further questions?"

During the planning stages of this operation, months before in Paris, Blofeld had warned Largo that if trouble was caused by any members of his team, it was to be expected from the Russians, No 10 and No 11. "Conspiracy," Blofeld had said, "is their lifeblood. Hand in hand with conspiracy walks suspicion. These two men will always be wondering if they are not the object of some subsidiary plot – to give them the most dangerous work, to make them fall guys for the police, to kill them and steal their share of the profits. They will be inclined to inform against their colleagues, and always to have reservations about the plans that are agreed upon. For them, the obvious plan, the right way to do a thing, will have been chosen for some ulterior reason which is being kept hidden from them. They will need constant reassurance that nothing is being kept hidden from them, but, once they have accepted their orders, they will carry them out meticulously and without regard for their personal safety. Such men, apart from their special talents, are worth having, but you will please remember what I have said and, should there be trouble, should they try and sow mistrust within the team, you must act quickly, and with utter ruthlessness. The maggots of mistrust and disloyalty must not be allowed to get a hold in your team. They are the enemies within that can destroy even the most meticulous planning."

Now No 10, a terrorist called Strelik, began talking. He was sitting two places away from Largo, on his left. He did not address Largo, but the meeting. He said, 

"Comrades, I am thinking of the interesting matters recounted by No 1, and I am telling myself that everything has been excellently arranged. I am also thinking that this operation will be a very fine one and that it will certainly not be necessary to explode the second weapon at Target No 2. I have some documentations on these islands and I am learning from the _Yachtsman's_ (No 10 had trouble with this word) _Guide to the Bahamas_ that there is a big new hotel within a few miles of our target site, also a scattered township. I am therefore estimating that the explosion of Weapon No 1 will destroy perhaps two thousand persons. Two thousand persons is not very many in my country and their death, compared with the devastation of this important missile station, would not, in my country, be considered of great importance. I am thinking that it will be otherwise in the West and that the destruction of these people and the rescuing of the survivors will be considered a grave matter that will act decisively towards immediate agreement with our terms and the saving of Target No 2 from destruction. This being so, Comrades," the dull, flat voice gained a trace of animation, "I am saying to myself that within as little as twenty-four hours our labour will have been completed and the great prize will be within our grasp. Now, Comrades," the red and black shadows turned the taut smile into a dark grimace, "with so much money so near at hand, an unworthy thought has come into my mind."

Unseen Largo put his hand in his coat pocket and put the safe on the little Colt .25 he carried.

"And I would not be performing my duty to my comrade, No 11, nor to the other members of our team if I did not share this thought with you at the same time requesting forbearance for what may be unfounded suspicions." 

The meeting was quiet, ominously so. These people had all been secret agents or conspirators, they recognised the smell of insurrection, the shadow of approaching disloyalty. What did No 10 know? What was he going to divulge? Each one got ready to decide very quickly which way to jump when the cat was let out of the bag. Largo slipped his gun out of his pocket and held it along this thigh.

"There will come a moment," continued No 10, watching the faces of those opposite him for a quick gauge of their reactions, "very shortly, when fifteen of us, leaving five members and six sub-agents on board this ship, will be out there, " he waved a hand at the cabin wall, "in the darkness, at least half an hour's swim from this ship. At that moment, Comrades," the voice became sly, "what a thing it would be if those remaining on board were to sail the ship away and leave us in the water."

There was a shifting and muttering around the table. No 10 held up a hand. "Ridiculous I am thinking, and so no doubt are you Comrades. But we are men and women of a feather, we recognise the unworthy urges that can come upon even the best of our friends and comrades when fortunes are at stake. And, Comrades, with fifteen of us gone, how much more of a fortune would there be for those remaining, with their story for No 2 of a great fight with sharks in which we all succumbed."

Largo said softly, "And what is it you propose, No 10?"

For the first time, No 10 looked to his right. He could not see the expression in Largo's eyes. He spoke at the great red and black mass of his face, the tone of his voice obstinate. He said, "I am proposing that one member of each national group should stay on board to safeguard the interests of the other members of his national group. That would reduce the swimming party to ten. In this way those who are undertaking this dangerous work would go about it with much more enthusiasm, knowing that no such happening as I have mentioned could come about."

Largo's voice was polite, unemotional as he said, "I have one very short and simple answer to your suggestion, No 10." The light glittered red on the metal thumb that protruded from the big hand. The three bullets pumped so quickly into the face of the Russian that the three explosions, the three bright flashes, were almost one. No 10 put up two feeble hands, palms forward, as if to catch any further bullets, gave a jerk forward with his stomach at the edge of the table, and then crashed heavily backwards, in a splinter of chair wood, on to the floor.

Largo put the muzzle of the gun up to his nose and delicately sniffed it, moving it to and fro under the nostrils as if it was some delicious vial of perfume. In the silence, he looked slowly down one rank of faces and up the other. Finally he said softly, "The meeting is now at an end. Will all members please return to their cabins and look for a last time at their equipment. Food will be ready from now on in the gallery. One drink of alcohol will also be available for those who want it. I will detail two crew members to look after the late No 10. Thank you."

When he was alone, Largo got to his feet, stretched, and gave a great cavernous yawn. Then he turned to the sideboard, opened a drawer and took out a box of Corona cigars. He chose one and, with a gesture of distaste, lit it. Then he took the closed red rubber container that held the ice cubes and walked out of the door, along to the cabin of Domino Vitali.

He closed the door and locked it. Here also, a red riding light hung from the ceiling, and under it, on the double bunk, the girl lay offered like a starfish, her ankles and wrists strapped to the four corners of the ironwork below the mattress. Largo put the icebox down on the chest of drawers and balanced the cigar carefully beside it so that the glowing tip would not spoil the varnish.

The girl watched him, her eyes glittering red points in the semi-darkness.

Largo said softly, "My dear, I have had great enjoyment out of your body, much pleasure. In return, unless you tell me who gave you that machine to bring on board, I shall be forced to cause you great pain. It will be caused with these two simple instruments," he held up the cigar and blew on the tip until it glowed brightly, "this for heat, and these ice cubes for cold. Applied scientifically, as I shall apply them, they will have the inevitable effect of causing your voice, when it has stopped screaming, to speak, and speak the truth. Now then, which is it to be?"

The girl's voice was deadly with hate. "You killed my brother, and now you will kill me. Go on and enjoy yourself. You are already a piece of death yourself. When the rest of it comes, very soon, I pray God you will suffer a million times more than both of us."

Largo's laugh was a short, harsh bark. He walked over to the edge of the bunk and said, "Very well, my dear. We must see what we can do with you, very softly, and very, very slowly." He bent down and hooked his fingers in the neckline of her shirt and the join of her brassiere. Very slowly, but with great force, he tore downwards, the whole length of her, then threw aside the torn halves of material and exposed the whole gleaming length of her body. He examined it carefully and reflectively, then went to the chest of drawers and took up the cigar and the bowl of ice cubes. Returning to the bunk, he made himself comfortable on the edge of it, then he took a puff at the cigar, knocked the ash off on to the floor, and leaned forward.

007-007-007

_London_

Bond and Leiter's signal, sent from aboard the _Manta_ , just before it got under way in pursuit of the _Disco_ , caused quite a stir amongst the Top Brass of Operation _Thunderball_ , which secretly amused M; she was careful not to show this, of course, since it wouldn't do to antagonise these men. The Chief of Naval Staff seemed the most put out by Bond's departure aboard the _Manta_ before Brigadier Fairchild's arrival, and M had to be at her most diplomatic when suggesting that for Bond to have waited for Fairchild's arrival nearly two hours later, would have been the height of folly in such a situation as the current one.

She sensed Mallory keeping a close eye on her as she spoke rather forcefully to the men gathered around the War Room table, but his face, when she flicked a glance his way, gave nothing away regarding his feelings about the current situation.

"If Bond, and Felix Leiter, can stop this Largo from laying the bomb to be used against Target No 1," M said urgently, "then surely that's all that matters? Not who was in charge of the operation when it took place." She gave Gregory, the CNS, a hard look and after a moment he nodded, conceding her point, to her relief. "You needn't worry, sir, Bond won't be expecting to take any credit for the operation when it's successful," (she wouldn't consider the possibility that it might not be) "we never do."

Gregory's faint look of embarrassment told her that she'd hit the nail on the head, and she barely stopped herself from curling her lip in scorn at this realisation. She sighed silently, and hoped that Bond would wrap up his mission soon – the less she had to do with senior officials like Gregory, the happier she would be.

The meeting ended soon afterwards, and M went downstairs, slipping away before Mallory had a chance to corner her. She climbed into her waiting car and Tanner asked, "How did it go, ma'am?"

"Much as I expected," M answered, giving full vent to her sigh of exasperation as Richardson pulled out into the light traffic. "Let's hope Bond can wrap this up soon, and we can get back to normal operations, without a dozen old men constantly looking over my shoulder."

"Yes ma'am."


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here endeth part one of this epic AU. It maybe a couple of days before I start posting part 2 - but it will happen!

Chapter Ten

_Aboard the Manta_

It was very quiet in the attack centre of the _Manta_. Commander Pedersen, standing behind the man at the echo-sounder, occasionally made a comment over his shoulder to Bond and Leiter, who had been given canvas-backed chairs well away from the depth- and speed-gauges, which had been hooded so that they could only be read by the navigation team. Eventually the captain left his men to it and, smiling cheerfully, observed to Bond and Leiter, "Thirty fathoms and the nearest cay is a mile to westwards. Now we've got a clear course all the way to Grand Bahama. And we're making good speed. If we keep it up, we've got about four hours' sailing. Be off Grand Bahama about an hour before first light. How about some food and a bit of sleep? There won't be anything on the radar for an hour – these Berry Islands'll fill the screen until we're clear of them. Then'll come the big question. When we clear them, shall we see that one of the smallest cays has broken lose and is sailing fast northwards on a parallel course to ours? If we see that on the screen, it'll be the _Disco_. If she's there, we'll submerge. You'll hear the alarm bells, but you can just roll over and have a bit more sleep. Nothing can happen until it's certain that she's in the target area. Then we'll have to think again."

Pedersen made for the stairway. "Mind if I lead the way? Watch your heads on the pipes. This is the one part of the ship where there isn't much clearance."

They followed him down and along a passage to the mess hall, where they ordered a meal, Bond requesting poached eggs with rye toast and coffee. He was grateful for the captain's cheerful conversation, but he himself had no appetite. They was a growing tension in him which would only be released when the _Disco_ was picked up on the radar and there would be a prospect of action. Lurking behind his concern about the whole operation was worry about the girl: had he been right to trust her with so much of the truth? Had she betrayed him? Had she been caught? Was she alive? He drank down a glass of iced water, and listened to the captain explaining how the ice cubes and the water were distilled from the sea.

Finally Bond became impatient with the cheerful, even tone of the conversation, and he said, rather abruptly, "Forgive me, Captain, but could I interrupt for a moment and clear my mind about what we're going to do if we're right about the _Disco_ and if we come up with her off the Grand Bahama? I can't quite figure out what the next step ought to be. I've got my own ideas, but were you thinking we'd try and go alongside and board her, or just blow her out of the water?"

The captain's grey eyes were quizzical as he regarded Bond across the table. "Well, I was kind of leaving all that to you fellers. The Navy Department says that I'm under your orders, so I'm just the chauffeur. Supposing you tell me what you have in mind, and I'll be glad to go along with anything you suggest so long as it doesn't endanger my ship – " he smiled – "too much, that is. In the last resort, if the Navy Department means what is says, and from your account of this operation it does, the safety of the ship will also have to go by the board. As I told you aloft in the attack centre, I got acknowledgement of our signal and full approval for our proposed course of action. That's all the clearance I need. Now then, you tell me."

The food came and Bond picked at his eggs for a moment, before pushing them aside. He looked at Felix Leiter, then said, "I don't know what you've worked out, Felix, but this is how I see the picture we may find around four o'clock in the morning, on the assumption, that is, that the _Disco_ has been sailing north in shoal water under cover of the Berry Islands, and that she'll then make for the Grand Bahama shore somewhere off the site of the missile station. We now, on that assumption, I've had a good look at the charts and it seems to me that, if she's going to lay that bomb as close to the target as she can, she'll heave to and anchor about a mile off-shore in about ten fathoms, then get the bomb half-mile or so closer to the target, lay it in twelve feet of water or so, switch on the time mechanism, and get the hell away. That's how I'd go about it. She'd be away by first light and there's plenty of yacht traffic around West End from what I can gather from the pilot. She'd show up on the station radar of course, but she'd be just another yacht. Assuming the bomb's set for the twelve hours Largo's got before the time limit expires, he cold be back in Nassau or twice as far away if he wanted in the time he's got. For my money, he'll go back to Nassau with his treasure hunting story, and wait for the next lot of orders from SPECTRE." Bond paused, then avoiding Leiter's eyes, added, "That is, unless he's managed to get information out of the girl."

Leiter said staunchly, "Hell, I don't believe that girl would talk. She's a tough cookie. And supposing she did? He's only got to drop her overboard with some lead around her neck and say her aqualung failed on the treasure hunt, or some spiel of that sort. He'd go back to Nassau all right. That man's cover's as solid as JP Morgan and Company."

The captain interrupted, "Leaving all that aside, Commander Bond, and sticking to the operational angles, how do you suggest he's going to get that bomb out of the ship and right into the target area? I agree that according to the charts he can't get much closer in the yacht, and if he did he might be in trouble with the waterfront guard at the missile station, I see from my dope on the place that they've got some kind of a guard-boat for chasing away fishermen and suchlike when they're going to do a practice shoot."

Bond said decisively, "I'm sure that's the real purpose of the underwater compartment in the _Disco_. They've got one of those underwater sleds in there, and probably an electric torpedo to haul it. They'll load the bomb on the sled and take it in with a team of underwater swimmers, lay it, and come back to the ship, otherwise why have all that underwater gear?"

The captain said slowly, "You may be right, Commander. It makes sense, but what do you want me to do about it?"

Bond looked the captain in the eye. "There's only one moment to nail these people. If we show our hand too soon, the _Disco_ can get the hell away – only a few hundred yards maybe, and dump the bombs in a hundred fathoms. The only time to get them, and the bomb, the first bomb anyway, is when that team has left the ship and is on its way to the laying point. We've got to get their underwater team with our underwater team. The second bomb, if its aboard, doesn't matter – we can sink the ship with the second bomb inside her."

The captain looked down at his empty plate, arranging the cutlery neatly, then looked up, first at Leiter then at Bond. He said thoughtfully, "I guess what you say makes sense, Commander. We have plenty of oxygen rebreathers on board. We also have ten of the finest swimmers in the Nuclear Flotilla. But they'll only have knives to fight with. I'll have to ask for volunteers." He paused. "Who's going to lead them?"

Bond said, "I'll do that. Skin-diving happens to be one of my hobbies, and I know what fish to look out for and which ones not to mind about. I'll brief your men about those things."

"I'm coming too," Leiter said. "Try leaving me behind!"

Bond raised his eyebrows. "I wasn't planning to."

The captain smiled and got to his feet. "I'll have a word with the men over the speaker system, then we'll have to get together with the charts, see that the gear's okay, and such like. You fellers aren't going to get any sleep after all. I'll have a ration of battle pills issued to you, you're going to need them." He raised a hand and went off down the mess hall.

Leiter turned to Bond. "What sort of formation are we going to swim in? Can we get some of those knives made into lances, do you think? And how are we going to recognise our side from theirs underwater, and in semi-darkness at that? We've got to make this operation pretty solid – that Pedersen's a good guy and we don't want to get some of his men killed through some damn silly mistake of ours."

"Don't worry, Felix, we'll sort it out," Bond smiled at his friend's urgency, feeling something similar himself as his heart rate sped up and adrenaline began to course through his body.

The voice of the captain sounded over the PA system, and Bond pushed to his feet, Leiter following suit, as Pedersen began to explain matters to his crew.

007-007-007

Bond was resting on his borrowed bunk when the alarm bell rang and a voice announced, "Diving stations! Diving stations", and the bunk immediately tilted slightly. He smiled grimly to himself, slipped off the bunk and made his way along to the attack centre. The captain turned away from the plot as Leiter followed Bond in, and said tensely, "It looks as if you were right, gentlemen. We've got her all right – about five miles ahead and two points to starboard. She's doing around thirty knots, and no other ship could be holding that speed, or would be likely to. And she's showing no lights. Care to have a look?" He gestured at the scope and Bond moved forward as the captain continued speaking, "She's raising quite a wake and kicking up plenty of phosphorescence. No moon yet, but you'll see the white blur when your eyes get used to the dark."

Bond bent to the rubber eyes sockets, and in a few moments he had her, a white scut on the horizon of the soft, feathery swell. He stood back to allow Leiter to take a look, and asked, "What's her course?"

"Same as ours – western end of Grand Bahama. We'll go deeper now and put on a bit of speed. We've got her on the Sonar as well, so we shan't lose her. We'll get up parallel and close in a bit later. The met. report gives a light westerly breeze in the early hours, which'd help when the swimming party goes out. If it's too calm when you unload, it'll be obvious to anyone watching as the surface'll boil quite a bit as each man goes out. Here," he turned to a powerful-looking man in white ducks, "this is Petty Office Fallon. He's in command of the swimming party under yours and Mr Leiter's orders of course. All the top swimmers volunteered and he's chosen nine of them. I've taken them off all duties. Maybe you gentlemen would like to get acquainted with your team. You'll want to discuss your routines. Discipline'll have to be pretty tight – recognition signals and so forth. Okay? The sergeant at arms is looking after the weapons." 

He smiled. "He's rustled up a dozen flick knives. Had some difficulty persuading the men to give them up, but he's done it. He's barbed them and sharpened them down almost to needles, then fitted them into the tops of broom handles. Guess he'll make you sign an indent for the brooms or he'll have the supply officer on his back when we get out of here. All right then, be seeing you. Ask for anything you want." He turned back to the plot.

Bond and Leiter followed Petty Officer Fallon along the lower deck to the engine room and then to the engine repair shop, which was a long, low room equipped with various forms of precision machinery. At one end were grouped the nine swimmers clad only in bathing trunks, their bodies glowing with sunburn, at the other end, two men in grey overalls were working in semi-darkness with only pinpoints of light cast on the whirring lathes from which the knife blades threw small fountains of blue and orange sparks. Some of the swimmers already had their spears.

After the introductions, Bond took one of the spears and examined it; it was a deadly weapon, the blade sharpened to a stiletto and notched near the top into a barb, the whole firmly wired into the top of a long stout stave. He thumbed the needle-sharp steel and touched the tip, deciding that even a shark's skin wouldn't stand up to that. But what would the enemy have? CO2 guns for a certainty. Bond looked the smiling bronzed young men over, knowing that there were going to be casualties – perhaps many. Everything must be done to effect surprise, but those golden skins and his own paler skin would show at twenty feet in the moonlight, only Leiter's darker colouring would be less conspicuous. Bond turned to the Petty Officer, "I suppose you don't have any diving suits on board?"

"Why sure, Commander. Have to, for escape in cold water – we're not always sailing among the palm trees," he said, smiling.

"We'll all need them. And could you get white or yellow numbers, big ones, painted on their backs? Then we'll know more or less who's who."

"Sure, sure." He called to his men. "Hey, Fonda and Johnson. Go along to the Quartermaster and draw rubber suits for the whole team. Bracken, get a pail of rubber solution paint from Stores and paint numbers on the backs of the suits, a foot deep, from one to twelve. Get going."

Later, with the gleaming black suits hanging like giant bat skins along the wall, Bond called the team together and briefed them in detail, before asking for questions.

"What do we do when we get out of the sub, sir?"

"Try not to make any fuss on the surface. Get down quickly, to ten feet, and take your place in the formation. We're likely to get help from a light breeze, but we're bound to create turbulence on the surface."

"What about signals underwater, sir? Suppose a mask goes wrong or something."

"Thumbs down for any kind of emergency. Arms held straight out for a big fish. Thumbs up means 'I understand' or 'Coming to help you'. That's all you'll need." Bond smiled at them. "If the feet go up, that's the signal that you've had it."

The men laughed, some nervously, then came the sudden voice of the PA system, "Swimming party to the escape hatch. I repeat, swimming party to the escape hatch. Don equipment. Don equipment. Commander Bond to the Attack Centre, please."

The whine of the engines died to a moan, then was silent, and there was a slight bump as the _Manta_ hit bottom.

007-007-007

Bond shot upwards out of the escape hatch in a blast of compressed air and saw, far above him, the surface of the sea was a glittering plate of quicksilver bubbling and swirling with the small waves that he was glad to see had materialised. The balloon of air rushed past him and hit the silver ceiling like a small bomb. There was a sharp pain in his ears and he fought with his fins to slow down so that he could get decompression. Around him the rest of his underwater team came shooting out of the escape hatch, one by one, until there were a dozen of them collected in the sea outside the _Manta_.

Ten minutes before, in the attack centre, Commander Pedersen's stolid calm had given way to controlled excitement as he recounted the way that the _Disco_ had hove to ten minutes ago, since when the Sonar had kept picking up odd underwater noises, the sort one would expect if Largo was getting things mobilised in the _Disco_ 's underwater compartment.

"As soon as you're out, I'm going to float up a surface antenna and get a signal off to the Navy Department, give them a SitRep and have the missile station warned to stand by to evacuate if things go wrong. Then I'll come up to twenty feet or so and have two tubes loaded and keep a periscope watch out. I'm issuing Fallon with a second flare and I've told him to keep out of trouble, as much as he can, and be ready to let off the flare if it looks as if things are going really bad for our side. Unlikely – " he smiled at Bond, "but I can't take chances." He held out his hand. "Well, you'd better get going. Good luck. I hope my boys'll be a credit to the ship."

Bond set off at the head of the V formation, one hand at his side, the other holding his spear up the shaft against his chest. It was hot and sticky inside the black suit, and the recirculating oxygen coming through the mouthpiece tasted of rubber, but Bond forgot about the discomfort as he concentrated on keeping an even pace and a dead steady course.

Bond wondered if they'd be able to achieve surprise, thinking that they'd be a terrifying ambush to meet coming at you through the shadows and shapes of the reef. His heart lifted momentarily at the thought, only to be checked by his gnawing anxiety he felt for the girl. Supposing she was part of the enemy team, supposing he came face to face with her, could he bring himself to kill her with his spear? He mentally shook his head. Of course he could – he'd killed women before, where necessary. He didn't like doing so, but there was little point in being sentimental about it.

Reaching the coral head that he'd mentally earmarked as his target to reach so that he could check the position of the _Disco_ , Bond gave the signal to halt his team, then with infinite caution, raised his head through the sucking waves. The yacht was still in position, showing more plainly now the moon was full on her. There was no sign of life aboard, and Bond inched his gaze slowly across the intervening sea, but could see nothing. He slid around to the other side of the coral and saw nothing but the broken waters of the shoal and, five or six hundred yards away, the clear coastline and the beach. Bond searched the clear channels for unusual turbulence in the water, for shapes, for anything moving. Then, a hundred yards away, on the edge of a big patch, almost a clear lagoon of clear water amongst the coral, a head, a pale head with the glitter of a mask across it, broke the surface for an instant, took a quick look around and immediately submerged. 

Bond held his breath, feeling his thrilled heart hammering against the inside of his rubber suit. He felt stifled and took the breathing tube from between his teeth and let his breath burst out of him, quickly gulping in some mouthfuls of fresh air. He got a good fix on the position where he'd seen the head, crammed the tube roughly between his lips, and slid back down and around the coral head to join the others.

Now, he thought, surging forward, it was only a question of speed and careful navigation among the occasional higher outcrops of coral. Fish squirted out of his path and all the reef seemed to wake with the shock-waves of twelve hastening bodies. Fifty yards on, Bond signalled to slow, to fan out in the attacking line, then moved slowly forward again, his eyes aching with the strain of peering ahead through the jagged shapes amongst the pale mist. Yes! There was the glitter of white flesh, and there, and there. Bond's arm made the hurling signal for the attack, then he plunged forward, his spear held in front of him like a lance.

Bond's group came in from the flank which, as he quickly saw, was a mistake for the SPECTRE team were still moving forward and a speed that surprised him until he saw the small propellers on the enemies' backs and realised that Largo's men were wearing compressed-air speed-packs strapped between the twin cylinders of their aqualungs, which operated small screws. Combined with the trudge of the fins, this gave them at least double normal swimming speed in open water, but here, among the broken coral, and slowed by the manoeuvring of the sled preceded by the electric Chariot, the team was perhaps only a knot faster than Bond's group, now thrashing their way forward to an interception point that was rapidly escaping them. And there were a hell of a lot of enemy, he noted, although he stopped counting after twelve. Most of them carried the CO2 guns with extra spears in quivers strapped to their legs. The odds were bad, Bond knew, and he wished that they could get within spear range before the alarm was given.

Thirty yards away, twenty, and Bond glanced back behind him. There were six of his men almost at arm's length, the rest straggled out in a crooked line, but still the masks of Largo's men were pointed forwards, and he realised they still hadn't seen the black shapes making for them through the coral. But now, as Bond drew level with Largo's rearguard, the moon threw his shadow forward across a pale patch of sand and one man, then another, glanced quickly sideways. Bond got his foot against a lump of coral and, with this to give him impetus, flung himself forward. The man had no time to defend himself and Bond's spear caught him in the side and hurled him against the next man in line. Bond thrust and wrenched sickeningly with his spear, and the man dropped his gun and bent double, clutching at his side. Bond bored on into the mass of naked men now scattering in all directions, with their jet packs accelerated. Another man when down in front of him, clawing at his face as a chance thrust of Bond's had smashed the glass of his mask. He threshed his way up towards the surface, kicking Bond in the face as he went. A spear ripped into the rubber protecting Bond's stomach and he felt pain and wetness that might be blood, or merely sea water. He dodged another flash of metal and a gun butt hit him hard on the head, but with most of its force spent against the cushion of water, so it only knocked him silly, making him cling for a moment to a coral head to get his bearings while the black tide of his men swept past him and individual fights filled the water with black puffs of blood.

The battleground had now shifted to a wide expanse of clear water fringed with broken coral, and on the fare side of this, Bond saw the grounded sled laden with something long and bulky with a rubber covering: the silver torpedo of the Chariot, and a close group of men that included the unmistakeable, oversize figure of Largo. Bond melted back among the coral clumps, got close down to the sand and began to swim cautiously around the flank of the big clear pool. Almost immediately he had to stop as he saw a squat figure cowering in the shadows, taking careful aim with his gun at Leiter, who was in difficulties with one of Largo's men, who had him by the throat. Bond gave two hard kicks of his flippers and hurled his spear from six feet; the light wood of the handle had no momentum, but the blade cut into the man's arms just as the bubbles of gas burst from the muzzle of the gun. His shot went wide, but he flashed around and thrust at Bond with the empty gun. From the corner of his eye, Bond saw his spear floating slowly up towards the surface, so he dived for the man's legs in a clumsy rugby tackle, clawing them off the ground. The gun muzzle hit him in the temple and he reached a desperate hand for the enemy's mask, ripping it off his face. That was enough and Bond swam aside as he watched the man, blinded by the salt water, groping his way up towards the surface. He felt a nudge at his arm and turned to see Leiter clutching at his oxygen tube, his face inside the mask contorted. Bond seized his friend around the waist and leaped for the surface fifteen feet up; as they burst through the silver ceiling, Leiter tore the broken tube from his mouth and gulped frantically for air, Bond holding onto him through the paroxysm before guiding him to a clump of shallow coral. Leiter angrily pushed him away, telling him to get the hell back under and leave him alone, he could manage, and Bond gave him a thumbs-up, then dived down again.

He kept well within the forest of coral as he began his stalking of Largo; occasionally he caught glimpses of individual battles and once he passed under one of his men from the _Manta_ , staring down at him from the surface, the mask and oxygen tube missing, and the mouth gaping hideously in death. On the bottom there were bits of wrack from the battle – an oxygen pack, strips of black rubber, a complete aqualung, and several spears from the CO2 guns. Bond picked up two of them and noted that he was now on the edge of the open lagoon of battle water. The sled, with its obscene rubber sausage was still there, guarded now by two of Largo's men with their guns at the ready, but of Largo there was no sign. Bond peered into the misty wall through which the moonlight, paler now, filtered down onto the ripples in the sand, their pretty patterns scuffed and churned by the feet of the combatants. There was nothing else to be seen, and no way for Bond to guess how the battle, dispersed into a dozen separate running fights, was going. What was happening on the surface? When Bond had taken Leiter up, the sea had been lit by the red flare that told the _Manta_ that the enemy had been engaged, but how soon before the rescue dinghy came on the scene? Ought he to stay where he was and watch over the bomb?

With frightening suddenness, the decision was made for him as the gleaming torpedo shape of the electric Chariot shot out of the mists to Bond's right, Largo sitting astride it in the saddle. He was bent down behind the small Perspex shield to get extra speed, and his left hand held two of the _Manta_ spears pointing forwards, while he controlled the joystick with his right hand. As he reappeared, the two guards dropped their guns on the sand and held up the coupling of the sled. Largo slowed down and drifted up to them, and one man caught the rudder and wrestled to pull the Chariot backwards towards the couplings. They were going to get out, Bond realised – Largo was going to take the bomb back out through the reef and drop it in deep water or bury it. If they did the same thing with the second bomb that remained aboard the _Disco_ , Largo could say that he had been ambushed by a rival team of treasure hunters; how could he have known they were from a United States submarine? His men had fought back with their shark guns, but only because they had been attacked first, and once again the treasure hunt cover would hide everything.

The men were still wrestling with the couplings, and Largo was looking back at them anxiously, so Bond, measuring the distance, flung himself forward with a great kick against the coral. Largo turned in time to fling up one arm and parry Bond's stab with his right-hand spear, while the stab with left rattled harmlessly off the aqualung cylinders on Largo's back. Bond drove on, head first, his hands outstretched for the air tube in Largo's mouth. The big man's hands flashed up to protect himself, dropping his two spears, and jerking back the joystick he had been holding in his right. The Chariot surged forwards, away from the two guards, and shot obliquely upwards towards the surface while the two bodies clung and struggled on its back.

It wasn't possible to fight scientifically, and both men tore vaguely at each other while their teeth clenched desperately on the rubber mouthpieces that were their lifelines, but Largo had a firm grip on the Chariot between his knees while Bond had to use one hand to hang onto Largo's equipment to prevent himself being thrown. Again and again Largo's elbow crashed into Bond's face while he dodged from side to side to take the blows on his mouth and not on the precious glass of his mask. At the same time, Bond hammered with his free hand at his only target, Largo's kidneys, beneath the brown square of flesh that was all he could reach.

The Chariot broke the surface fifty yards down the wide channel leading to the open sea and tore crazily on, its nose, tilted by Bond's weight over the tail, sticking out of the water at forty-five degrees. Now Bond was half in the wash and it would only be minutes before Largo managed to twist and get both hands to him. Making up his mind, Bond let go of Largo's aqualung and, clutching the stern of the torpedo between his legs, slid back until he felt the top of the rudder at his back. Now, if he could just avoid the screw; he reached one hand down between his legs, got a firm grip on the rudder, and heaved himself backwards and off the machine. His face was now inches away from the whirling propeller and being buffeted by the turbulence, but he dragged hard downwards and felt the stern coming with him. Soon the damned thing would be almost upright, and Bond wrenched the blade of the rudder sideways in a right-angled turn, then his arms almost out of their sockets by the strain, let go. Above and in front of him, as the torpedo veered right-handed, Largo's body was thrown into the water by the sharp turn and the change of balance. He twisted quickly over and faced downwards, the mask searching for his enemy.

Bond, utterly defeated by exhaustion and the blood he'd been losing without being aware of it, knew there was nothing left for him to do but stay alive and get away somehow. The bomb was immobilised, the Chariot gone, careering in circles over the sea. Largo was finished. Bond summoned what little strength remained and sluggishly dived down towards his last hope, a refuge among the coral.

Behind him, unseen by Bond, Largo came down after him, his great strength unimpaired by his battle with the agent; he swam in a giant, easy crawl, following Bond as he swerved in among the coral heads. Bond saw a white sand passage and followed it, trusting to the small extra protection of his rubber suit as the lane narrowed among the sharp coral clumps. Then he became aware of a black shadow above him and saw that Largo hadn't bothered getting down into the channel, but was following him from above. Bond knew the Italian was merely biding his time, waiting for the opportune moment to attack, and he flexed his fingers, trying to get some life back into them, although even as he did so, he wondered how he could hope to defeat those gigantic hands of Largo's. 

The narrow passage widened out again and Bond saw the glint of a sandy channel ahead. There was no room for him to turn around, he could only swim on into the open trap; then he realised that he didn't have to go into the trap, and he stopped, standing upright to face Largo as he dived down to the firm sand and stood facing Bond. He advanced slowly between the walls of coral, his huge hands held forwards read for his first hold. At ten paces distant, he stopped and his eyes swivelled sideways to a coral clump. Shooting out his right hand he grabbed hold of something and yanked hard, and Bond saw he had snatched a baby octopus from the coral and was holding it in front of him like a waving flower. Largo's teeth drew away from the rubber mouthpiece and the clefts of a smile appeared in his cheeks as he put up one hand and significantly tapped his mask. Bond bent down and picked up a rock covered in seaweed, thinking all the while that Largo was being melodramatic. A rock in Largo's mask would be far more efficient than having an octopus slapped across his own. Bond wasn't worried by the octopus, after all, only a day before he had been in company with a hundred of them. What worried him far more was Largo's longer reach.

Largo took a pace forward, then another, and Bond crouched, backing up carefully so as not to cut his rubber suit on the narrowing passage walls. Slowly, deliberately, Largo came on and Bond knew that in another two paces he would attack. Then he caught a glint of movement out in the open behind Largo – someone coming to the rescue? But the glint was white, not black, so it was one of theirs. 

Largo leaped forward while Bond's attention was distracted and the agent kicked off from the coral, diving down towards the Italian's groin, the jagged rock in his hand. But Largo was ready for that manoeuvre and his knee came up hard against Bond's head as, at the same time, his right hand came swiftly down and clamped the small octopus across Bond's mask. Then from above, both hands came down and grabbed Bond by the neck, lifting him up like a child and holding him at arms' length as he pressed.

Bond could see nothing. Vaguely he felt the slimy tentacles groping over his face, getting a grip on the mouthpiece between his teeth, pulling, but the blood was roaring in his head and he knew he was gone.

Slowly he sank down to his knees, then he wondered why he was sinking, what had happened to the hands at his throat? His eyes, which had been squeezed shut in agony, opened slowly and there was light. The octopus, now at his chest, let go and shot away among the coral, and in front of him he saw Largo, Largo with a spear sticking horribly through his neck, lay kicking feebly on the sand. Behind him, looking down at the body, stood a small, pale figure who was fitting another spear into an underwater gun. The long hair flowed around her head like a veil in the luminous sea.

Bond forced himself to his feet, then took a step forward before he felt his knees beginning to give way, and a wave of blackness began to creep over his vision. He leant against the coral, his mouth slackening around the oxygen tube and water seeping inside. "No," he told himself angrily, "no, don't let that happen!"

A hand took hold of his, and he made out a face staring at him with an urgent expression; after a moment he realised it was Leiter, and Bond tried to focus and see where Domino had got to, but he couldn't hold onto consciousness any longer.

007-007-007

_Nassau_

Bond lay in a white, antiseptic room, drugged and asleep, and M sat beside his bed, watching him attentively. He was an absolute mess: his face and neck were battered and bruised, his stomach covered by bandages, his temple was gashed, and his shoulder was also damaged. 

M looked up when the door opened and Felix Leiter stuck his head around the edge. "Is he awake yet?" asked the American.

M shook her head, and Leiter, looking disappointed, backed out again. M had heard all about the mission, the wholly successful mission, from the CIA agent, and now she waited to congratulate Bond. 

She lifted her head and stared unseeingly out of the window, trying not to picture her first sight of Bond as he lay, as white as the sheets which covered him, in the bed after the surgeon had operated on him to repair the damage that had been done to his stomach by a spear. She had thought she was going to lose him, and fear had clutched at her heart at the idea of losing another man who, she had realised, was as dear to her as her husband had been, if in a different way.

M glanced back down and found Bond's blue eyes staring up at her, an expression of puzzlement in them.

"James," she said softly; she couldn't resist reaching forward to take his hand in both of hers. "How are you feeling?"

"Mangled," he answered and she nodded. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to congratulate you, 007."

"Thank you." His tone was subdued and she unconsciously squeezed his hand in hers. "What happened to the girl, do you know?"

She noted that he didn't look at her as he asked this question, and she suspected he'd already guessed the answer. "She was found near where Leiter found you. Dead. She'd been tortured pretty badly by Largo in his attempts to find out who you and Leiter were working for, and although she managed to escape from the _Disco_ and come after Largo, and kill him, her strength failed her and she drowned. I'm sorry, James."

He closed his eyes but not before she saw a sheen of moisture in them. She didn't comment, however, instead asking, "Do you want to hear the rest of the news, or would you rather wait?"

"Tell me." He didn't open his eyes again, and M squeezed his hand again, deliberately this time, trying to convey some small comfort to him.

"We've recovered both the bombs, and Kotze, the East German physicist, is talking nineteen-to-the-dozen, trying to wangle a better deal on his imprisonment. It appears that SPECTRE is actually a gang of big-time hoodlums, as your friend Felix would say. Ex-operators from the Mafia, Neo-Nazis, all the big criminal outfits from across Europe. The headquarters is in Paris, or rather, it was, and the top man, Blofeld, got away. It's probable that when Largo didn't check in as planned after the bomb was supposed to have been laid, he fled immediately. According to Kotze, SPECTRE has banked millions of dollars since they got going five or six years ago, and this job was to be the final one. I was right about Miami, too. It was going to be the second target – they were planning on putting the bomb in the yacht basin."

"So it's all over," Bond said, sounding tired.

"Well, we still have the clean-up operation to do, of course. We will need to decide just what and how much to tell the public, but your part of it is over, yes. You don't have to do anything now except concentrate on getting better. You'll have several weeks of medical leave once you get out of here."

"I understand. Thank you, M." 

She watched him, saw his face slacken and heard his breathing soften and even out, and knew he was asleep again. The surgeon had warned her that he was likely to sleep a lot for the next twenty-four hours, at least, while he began the healing process. She ought, she knew, to leave him to it since her opposite number in the CIA was waiting for her, and there were innumerable things to sort out – but for the moment she chose to remain, watching Bond sleep, and knowing that her feelings about him had changed irrevocably. What that would mean for their future, she couldn't begin to imagine, but they would deal with it, she was sure. She stroked a thumb over the back of his hand in a rhythmic movement, revelling in the sensation of holding his hand. She had touched him so rarely before, but now she felt like holding on and never letting go.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I abandoned the idea of a Bond/M-centric interlude; since much of this section of the story will feature Bond undercover and out of contact with Six, I opted to include the Bond/M stuff as flashbacks instead.

Chapter Eleven

_France, 15 Months Later_

It was one of those Septembers when it seemed that the summer would never end.

The five mile promenade of Royale-les-Eaux, backed by trim lawns, emblazoned at intervals with tricolour beds of salvia, alyssum and lobelia, was bright with flags and, on the longest beach in the north of France, the gay sunbeds still marched prettily down to the tide-line in big, money-making battalions. Music, one of those lilting accordion waltzes, blared from the loudspeakers around the Olympic-size piscine and, from time to time, echoing above the music, a man's voice made announcements about missing children, telephone calls needing an answer, and parties waiting for one another at specific rendezvous. From the beach, particularly from the neighbourhood of the three playground enclosures, came a twitter of children's cries that waxed and waned with the thrill of their games.

It was one of those beautiful, naïve seaside panoramas for which the Brittany and Picardy beaches have provided the setting – and inspired their recorders, Boudin, Tissot, Monet – ever since the birth of plages and bains de mer more than a hundred and fifty years ago.

To James Bond, sitting in one of the concrete shelters with his face to the setting sun, there was something poignant, ephemeral about it all. It reminded him of his dimly remembered childhood – of the velvet feel of the hot powder sand, and the painful grit of wet sand between young toes when the time came for him to put on his shoes and socks; of the precious little pile of seashells and interesting wrack on the sill of his bedroom window in the guesthouse; of the small crabs scuttling away from the nervous fingers groping beneath the seaweed in the rock-pools; of swimming and swimming and swimming through the dancing waves – and always, in those memories, there was constant sunshine – and then the inevitable, infuriating, 'Time to come out, James'. It was all there, his own childhood, spread out before him in dim pictures. What a long time ago they were, those bucket-and-spade days. 

Impatiently Bond pulled himself upright from the slouch he'd adopted, slamming the door on his memories,. He was a grown man with years of dirty, dangerous work behind him – he was a spy, not a boy of six, and he was not sitting in this concrete shelter to sentimentalise about a period of his life he scarcely recalled. He was here, he had chosen to be here, to spy, to spy on a woman.

The sun was getting lower, and already one could smell the September chill that all day had lain hidden beneath the heat. The cohorts of sunbathers were in quick retreat, striking their little camps and filtering up the steps and across the promenade into the shelter of the town where the lights were going on in the cafes. The announcer at the swimming pool harried his customers: 'Allo! Allo! Fermeture en dix minutes! A dix-huit heures, fermeture de la piscine!" Silhouetted in the path of the setting sun, the two rescue boats with flags bearing a blue cross on a yellow background were speeding northwards for their distant shelter up-river in the Vieux Port. The last of the sand-yachts fled down the distant waterline towards its corral among the sand dunes, and the three agents cyclistes in charge of the car parks pedalled away through the melting ranks of cars towards the police station in the centre of town. In a matter of minutes the vast expanse of sand – the tide, still receding, was already a mile out – would be left to the seagulls that were already beginning to circle in their hordes to forage for the scraps of food left by the picnickers. Then the orange ball of the sun would hiss down into the sea and the beach would, for a while, be entirely deserted until, under cover of darkness, the prowling lovers would come to writhe briefly, grittily, in the dark corners between the bathing-huts and the sea wall.

On the beaten stretch of sand below where Bond was sitting, two golden girls in exciting bikinis packed up the game of badminton which they had been so provocatively playing, and raced each other up the steps towards Bond's shelter. They flaunted their bodies at him as they slowed down to pass him, chattering excitedly and waiting to see if he would respond to them; when he didn't, they linked arms and sauntered on towards the town.

Now, up and down the beach, the lifeguards gave a final blast on their horns to announce that they were going off duty, the music from the piscine stopped in mid-tune, and the great expanse of sand was suddenly deserted.

But not quite! A hundred yards out, lying face downwards on a black and white striped beach towel, on the private patch of firm sand where she had installed herself an hour before, the girl was still there, motionless, spread-eagled in a direct line between Bond and the setting sun that was now turning the left-behind pools and shallow rivulets into blood-red meandering scrawls across the middle distance. Bond went on watching her – now, in the silence and emptiness, with an ounce more tension. He was waiting for her to do something – for something, he didn't know what, to happen. It would be more true to say he was watching _over_ her. He had an instinct that she was in some sort of danger, or was it just that there was the smell of danger in the air? He didn't know, he only knew that he mustn't leave her alone, particularly now that everyone else was gone.

Bond was mistaken: not everyone else had gone. Behind him, at the café on the other side of the promenade, two men in raincoats and dark hats sat at a secluded table bordering the pavement. They had half-empty cups of coffee in front of them and they didn't speak, they simply sat and watched the blur on the frosted-glass partition of the shelter that was James Bond's head and shoulders. They also watched, but less intently, the distant white blur on the sand that was the girl. Their stillness and their unseasonable attire would have made a disquieting impression on anyone who, in his turn, might have been watching them, but there was only the waiter, who had put them in the category of 'bad news' and was hoping that they would soon be on their way.

When the lower rim of the orange sun touched the sea, it was almost as if a signal had sounded for the girl as she slowly got to her feet, ran both hands backwards through her hair, then began to walk evenly, purposefully towards the sun and the froth of the waterline over a mile away. It would be violet dusk by the time she reached the sea and one might have guessed that this was probably the last day of her holiday, her final bathe.

Bond, however, thought otherwise. He left his shelter, ran down the steps to the sand and began walking after her at a brisk pace. Behind him, on the promenade, the two men in raincoats also seemed to think otherwise as one of them hastily threw down some coins, and they both got up and, walking strictly in step, crossed the promenade to the sand and, with a kind of urgent military precision, marched rapidly side by side in Bond's tracks.

In the café, the waiter collected the coins left by his customers and looked after the distant figures, still outlined by the last quarter of the orange sun. It smelt like police business, or possibly private eye business; he would keep it to himself, but remember it, in case it became important.

Bond was rapidly catching up with the girl and he knew that he would catch up with her just as she reached the waterline. He began to wonder what he would say to her, how he would put it. He couldn't say, "I had a hunch you were going to commit suicide so I came after you to stop you." It would sound too melodramatic, for all that it was the truth. "I was going for a walk on the beach and I thought I recognised you. Will you have a drink after your swim?" was too childish. He finally decided on, "Oh, Tracy!" and then, when she turned around, "I was worried about you." Which would at least be inoffensive, but also had the merit of being true.

The sea was now a gunmetal grey below a primrose horizon. A small, westerly off-shore breeze, drawing the hot land-air out to sea, had risen and was piling up wavelets that scrolled in whitely as far as the eye could see. Flocks of herring gulls lazily rose and settled again in the wake of the girl's passage, and the air was full of their mewing and of the endless lap-lap of the small waves. The soft indigo dusk added a touch of melancholy to the empty solitude of sand and sea, now so far away from the comforting bright lights and holiday bustle of Royale-les-Eaux. Bond looked forward to getting the girl back to those bright lights as he watched the lithe golden figure in the white one-piece bathing suit and wondered how soon she would be able to hear his voice above the noise of the gulls and the sea. Her pace had slowed a fraction as she approached the waterline and her head, with its bell of heavy fair hair to the shoulders, was slightly bowed, in thought perhaps, or in tiredness.

Bond quickened his step until he was only ten paces behind her. "Hey! Tracy!"

The girl didn't start or turn around quickly, her steps faltered and stopped then, as a small wave creamed in and died at her feet, she turned slowly and stood squarely facing him. He saw that her eyes, puffed and wet with tears, moved past him at first, then met his as she said dully, "What is it? What do you want?"

"I was worried about you. What are you doing out here? What's the matter?"

The girl looked past him again and her clenched right hand came up to her mouth, muffling whatever she said next, just a voice very close behind Bond said softly, silkily, "Don't move or you get it back of the knee."

Despite the injunction, Bond whirled around, his body instinctively going into a crouch and his gun hand inside his jacket. The steady silver eyes of two automatics sneered back at him and he slowly straightened back up, dropping his hand to his side as the breath he hadn't been aware of holding hissed out between his teeth. The two dead-pan, professional faces watching him told him far more than the two silver eyes of the guns. They held no tension, no excitement, and the thin half-smiles were relaxed, contented even. The eyes weren't wary, they were almost bored. Bond had looked into such faces many times before, this was routine for him because these men were killers – pro-killers.

Bond had no idea who they were, who they worked for, what this was all about, but on the theory that worry is a dividend paid to disaster before it is due, he consciously relaxed his muscles and emptied his mind of questions. He simply stood and waited.

"Position your hands behind your neck." The accent of the silky, patient voice was from the south, from the Mediterranean, which fitted with the men's faces – tough-skinned, widely pored, yellow-brown; Marseillais perhaps, or Italian. The Mafia? The faces belonged to good secret police, or tough crooks, and Bond's mind ticked and whirred, selecting profiles like a computer. What enemies had he got in those areas? Might it be Blofeld at last? Had the hare turned upon the hound?

When the odds are hopeless, when all seems to be lost, then is the time to be calm, to make a show of authority – or at least of indifference. Bond smiled into the eyes of the man who had spoken. "I don't think your mother would like to know what you're doing this evening. You are a Catholic? So I will do as you ask." The man's eyes glittered and Bond swallowed a smirk of triumph as he clasped his hands behind his head.

The man stood aside in order to have a clear field of fire while his partner removed Bond's Walther PPK from the soft leather holster under his arm, then ran expert hands down his sides, his arms to the wrists, and down the inside of his thighs. Bond bit back a quip, feeling that his brand of banter might not go down well in this situation, and he had Tracy to consider. The second man stepped back, pocketed Bond's Walther, then took out his own gun once more.

Bond glanced over his shoulder at the girl since she had said nothing, expressed neither surprise or alarm at what was unfolding in front of her. She was standing with her back to the group, looking out to sea, apparently relaxed, unconcerned, and he wondered what, in God's name, was going on. Had she been used as bait? But for whom? And now what? Was he to be executed, his body left lying to be rolled back inshore by the tide? It seemed the only solution. He wondered what M would make of his non-appearance, if she would regret their last parting, and the harsh words they had both spoken.

If it was a question of some kind of deal, the four of them could not just walk back across the mile of sand to the town and say polite goodbyes on the promenade steps. No, this was the terminal point – or was it? From the north, through the deep indigo dusk, came the fast, rattling hum of an outboard motor and, as Bond watched, the cream of a thick bow-wave showed, then the blunt outline of one of the rescue-craft, the flat-bottomed inflatable rubber boats with a single engine in the flattened stern. So they had been spotted, by the coastguard perhaps, and here was the rescue! By God, he'd roast those two thugs when they got to the harbour police at the Vieux Port. But what story would he tell the girl?

Bond turned back towards the men and at once he knew the worst: they had their trousers rolled up to the knees and were waiting composedly, their shoes in one hand and their guns in the other. This was no rescue, it was just part of the ride. With a mental sigh, and paying no attention to the men, Bond bent down, rolled up his own trousers as they had done and, in fumbling with his shoes and socks, palmed one of his heel knives then, half turning towards the boat that had now grounded in the shallows, transferred the knife to his right-hand trouser pocket.

No words were exchanged as the girl climbed aboard the rescue boat first, then Bond, then the two men who helped the engine by giving the boat a shove on the stern. The boatman, who looked like any other French deep-sea fisherman, whirled the blunt nose around, changed gears to forward, and then they were off northwards through the buffeting waves while the golden hair of the girl streamed back and softly whipped Bond's cheek.

"Tracy, you're going to catch cold. Here. Take my jacket." Bond slipped it off and she held out a hand to help him put it on her. In the process her hand found his and pressed it. Now what the hell? he thought, puzzled, as he edged closer to her and felt her body respond. Bond glanced at the two men who sat hunched against the wind, their hands in their pockets, watchful, yet somehow uninterested. Behind them, the necklace of lights that was Royale receded swiftly until it was only a golden glow on the horizon. Bond's right hand felt for the comforting knife in his pocket while he wondered how, and when, he might have a chance to use it.

007-007-007

_Twenty four hours earlier_

Bond was nursing his car, an Aston Martin DB5, along the fast but dull stretch of N.1 between Abbeville and Montreuil that takes the English tourist back to his country via plane from Le Touquet or by ferry from Boulogne or Calais. He was hurrying safely, at between 80 and 90 mph, driving on the automatic pilot he mastered over years of travelling for work, his mind almost wholly occupied with drafting a letter of resignation from the Secret Service. The letter, addressed 'Personal for M', had got to the following stage:

_Ma'am,_

_I have the honour to request that you will accept my resignation from the Service, effective immediately._

_My reasons for this submission, which I put forward with regret, are the following:_

_(1) My duties in the Service, until some fifteen months ago, have been connected with the Double-0 Section and you, ma'am, have been kind enough, from time to time, to expression your satisfaction with my performance of those duties which I, for my part, have also been satisfied to perform. To my chagrin (Bond felt pleased with this word) however, on the successful completion of Operation 'Thunderball', I received personal instructions from you to concentrate all my efforts, without a terminal date, on the pursuit of Ernst Stavro Blofeld and on his apprehension, together with any remaining members of SPECTRE – otherwise known as The Special Executive for Counter-Intelligence, Revenge and Extortion'._

_(2) I accepted the assignment with, if you will recall, some reluctance since it seemed to me, and I so expressed myself at the time, that this was purely an investigatory matter which could well have been handled, using straightforward police methods, by other sections of the Service – local Stations, allied foreign secret services and Interpol. My objections were overruled, with you swearing me to secrecy on the matter, and for the interim period I have been engaged all over the world in routine detective work which, in the case of every scrap of rumour, every lead, has proved futile. I have found no trace of this man, nor of any remaining members of SPECTRE, if they exist._

_(3) My several appeals to be relieved of this wearisome fruitless assignment, even when addressed to you personally, ma'am, have either been ignored or, on occasion, curtly dismissed, and my frequent comments to the effect that I believe Blofeld is dead have been treated with a scant courtesy that reflects badly on both of us._

_(4) The above unhappy circumstances have recently achieved their climax in my undercover mission (Ref. Station R's PX437/007) to Palermo in pursuit of a man, named 'Blauenfelder', who was a perfectly respectable German citizen engaged in viniculture. My investigations into this individual brought me to the attention of the Mafia and my departure from Sicily was, to say the least, ignominious._

_(5) Having regard, ma'am, to the above and, specifically, to the continued misuse of the qualities, modest though I admit them to be, that have previously fitted me for the more arduous and, to me, more rewarding, duties associated with the work of the Double-0 Section, I beg leave to submit my resignation from the Service._

_I am, ma'am,_  
Your Obedient Servant,  
James Bond / 007. 

Of course, reflected Bond as he nursed his car through a built-up S-bend, he would have to rewrite some of it as it verged on the pompous in places, and there were one or two cracks that would have to be toned down. Much as he and M were currently at odds, or had been when he left for Palermo, he didn't want to resign leaving a nasty taste in either of their mouths. But he meant to resign, by God, he did. He was sick and tired of chasing the ghost of Blofeld across Europe, and the same went for SPECTRE. The thing had been smashed and even a man of Blofeld's genius, in the impossible event that he still existed, could never get an organisation of that calibre off the ground a second time.

It was then, on a ten-mile straight cut through a forest, that it happened – triple wind horns screamed their banshee discord in his ear, and a low white two-seater Lancia Flaminia Zagato Spyder, with its hood firmly down, tore past him, cutting cheekily across his bonnet as it pulled away, the boom of its twin exhausts echoing back from the border of trees. And it was a girl driving, a girl with a shocking pink scarf tied around her hair, leaving a brief pink tail that the wind blew horizontal behind her as she passed.

If there was one thing guaranteed to set James Bond really moving in life, with the exception of gun-play, it was being passed at speed by a pretty girl; and it was his experience that girls who drove as competitively as this one were always pretty – and exciting. The shock of the wind-horn's scream had automatically cut out the auto-pilot on which Bond had been relying, emptying his head of all other thought, and he brought his attention back to the car with a tight-lipped smile, stamping his foot down onto the accelerator and holding the wheel firmly in both hand as he went after her.

100, 110, 115 miles an hour, and he still wasn't gaining on her. Bond reached forward to the dashboard and flicked up a red switch, causing the thin high whine of machinery on the brink of torment to assault his ears and the Aston Martin gave an almost perceptible kick forwards. 120, 125, now he was definitely gaining on her. 50 yards, 40, 30! Now he could just see her eyes in her rear mirror, but the good road was running out and he could see, just over the rise, a church spire and the clustered houses of a small village at the bottom of a steepish hill, and the snake of another S-bend. Both cars slowed down – 90, 80, 70, and Bond watched her tail-lights briefly blaze, saw her hand reach down to the gear lever, almost simultaneously with his own, and change down. Then they were in the S-bend, on cobbles, and he was forced to brake as he enviously watched the way the girl's Lancia managed the rough going while his own car hopped and skittered as he wrenched at the wheel. And then they were at the end of the village and, with a brief wag of her rear bumper as she came out of the S, she was off like a bat out of hell up the long straight rise and he had lost fifty yards.

And so the race went on, Bond gaining a little on the straights, but then losing it all to the famous Lancia road-holding through the villages and, he had to admit, to her wonderful, nerveless driving. He saw a road sign saying 'Montreuil 5, Royale-les-Eaux 10, Le Touquet-Paris-Plage 15', and he wondered about her destination and debated with himself whether he shouldn't forget about Royale and the night he had promised himself at its famous casino to counteract recent frustrations, and just follow where she went, wherever it was, and find out who this devil of a girl was.

The decision was taken out of his hands. Montreuil is a dangerous town with cobbled, twisting streets and much traffic, and Bond was fifty yards behind her at the outskirts, but he still couldn't follow her fast slalom through the hazards, and by the time he was out of the town and over the Étaples-Paris level-crossing, she had vanished entirely. The left-hand turn for Royale came up and he wondered if he was imagining the dust he thought he saw hanging in the bend, but he took the turning, somehow knowing that he was going to see her again.

He leaned forward and flicked down the red switch, shutting off the supercharger and there was an almost deafening silence in the car as he relaxed his tense muscles. He idled through the pretty approaches to Royale, through the young beeches and the heavy-scented pines, looking forward to the evening and remembering his other annual pilgrimages to this place. He wondered what this place held for him on this beautiful September evening: a big win, a painful loss, a beautiful girl – that beautiful girl?

He forced his mind away from the thought of going home – he knew M would be expecting him to return in a timely manner, but he was so tired of the wild-goose chases she'd been sending him on that he saw no reason to rush back to London. He wondered, not for the first time, how his relationship with her could have deteriorated so badly after it had improved out of all recognition following the successful end of Operation _Thunderball_. In the hospital in Nassau, she'd seemed to have entirely forgotten about all the times he'd annoyed or even outright disobeyed her; she'd been tender with him, and they had gradually grown closer and closer, and then it had all fallen apart. Unwillingly, he found himself recalling his first meeting with her after he'd returned from Nassau.

007-007-007

_London, a week after the conclusion of Operation 'Thunderball'_

"If you can't face going back to your empty flat, why don't you go to a hotel?" Bond suggested. 

He'd come into the office to drop off his final written report about his part in Operation _Thunderball_ and found her brooding at the prospect of going home. It was the first time M had seen him since his arrival back in England two days ago, and she had spent the time since her own return keeping herself busy in order to stop herself from thinking about Bond. Not that it had required any special effort on her part to keep herself busy, given the size of the clean-up operation

M shook her head. "It wouldn't help," she said quietly, almost to herself.

"Well – " M looked up at Bond's hesitation, raising an eyebrow to encourage him to continue. "You could come and stay at my flat. I've got a guest room." He added the latter hastily, as if he thought she might suspect him of having improper designs on her. 

"Thank you, James, that's a very kind offer, but I really don't think it's a good idea. Not because I don't trust you, because I do." She sighed. "I need to stop acting like a child and just go home."

His placed his hand over hers, surprising her. "The offer's there if you change your mind," he said quietly. 

She wondered if she was imagining the disappointed expression in his eyes; it was there so fleetingly that she couldn't be sure it was disappointment. More likely relief, she told herself; he'd probably only offered the use of his room for courtesy's sake. She tried not to imagine what it might be like to live with him. She gave herself a mental shake, annoyed and ashamed at the direction of her thoughts.

"Thank you, James," she repeated. She withdrew her hand from his and began a brisk discussion of how things stood with regard to the worldwide search for Blofeld.

He gave her a brief, entirely unfathomable look as she changed the subject, then focused his attention on what she was telling him.

007-007-007

M had sent Bond home for the day nearly two hours before she left the office herself as he was still recovering from some of the injuries he'd sustained in the Bahamas. She was dropped off by her driver around seven fifteen and let herself into her flat with an air of bravado that she knew was absurd, then stopped dead inside the closing door. There was soft classical music coming from her hifi unit, and a scent of cooking drifting through the air from the kitchen. 

M dumped her bag, but didn't bother removing her coat before marching into the kitchen, her tiny Beretta ready in her hand, and found (much as she'd half expected) James Bond pouring a glass of wine.

He glanced up at her, lips pursed as he took in the weapon in her hand. "Do you get many intruders who cook for you?" he asked, his tone light and teasing.

She scowled for a moment, then relaxed. "No, I don't. I'd ask what you're doing here, but it's obvious. The question is, why?"

He came around the table, carrying the glass of wine he'd poured. "I thought coming back here might be slightly more bearable if you didn't come back to an entirely empty house. Oh, don't worry," he said quickly, in response to her expression, "I'm not proposing to stay, not even the night, if you don't want me to. I just thought that coming home to a house that's warm, with a meal almost ready for you, might make you feel a little bit better." He held out the glass. "I haven't forgotten the way you made me go out and eat with you once a week or so, after Vesper's death."

His voice was soft as he said this, and she took the glass from him with one hand, then put the other on his arm. "Thank you, James. This is very thoughtful of you. I appreciate it."

"Then why don't you go and sit down, and I'll bring it through when it's ready."

"What is it?" M asked. "It smells good."

"I made a hotpot," he said. "Well, brought it from home, actually."

She stared at him, dumbfounded that he'd thought to do such a thing. "I don't know what to say," she admitted.

He gave her a warm smile. "You already said 'Thank you'. He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her around. "Go and sit down."

She made her way back into the large, open-plan central room and noticed, for the first time, that the dining table at the far end had been carefully laid with not only a proper tablecloth, but also a small vase of flowers in the centre of the table, and a place setting that indicated she should expect dessert as well as the main course. She shook her head slightly, then set down her wine glass as she recalled the evenings after Bond had lost Vesper when she'd insisted on him accompanying her for a 'working dinner', her way of compelling him to eat with her, to ensure that he wouldn't just subsist on pizza or other take-away junk food.

After a moment's hesitation, M went back out to the kitchen to fetch a second place setting, and when Bond raised an enquiring eyebrow, she said, "I don't see why you shouldn't eat with me." He tried to hide a smirk, but not very successfully. "Don't make a habit of this, however," she added sternly.

"No ma'am." He agreed far too readily, she felt, and she narrowed her eyes at him, but didn't remonstrate further.

He took the hotpot from the oven and followed her back into the other room before serving up two portions. He took the cooking pot away and returned without the striped apron he'd been wearing, but with his suit jacket firmly back in place. 

As they ate, they made general conversation, and M found herself relaxing, and even laughing when he recounted his first attempts at cooking under his aunt's direction when he'd been twelve and 'obstinate as a mule', in Charmian's opinion.

They finished their wine sitting on the sofa, and when M eased her feet free of her shoes with a sigh of relief, Bond was quick to offer her a foot rub. That had earned him a raised eyebrow before she agreed, and he settled himself on the coffee table in front of the sofa and set about getting her to relax. By the time he'd finished, M was half asleep, and he suggested that she go to bed, while he went home.

"I'll see you in the morning, ma'am," he said, bending to bestow a brief kiss on her cheek, then letting himself out before he could forget himself.

007-007-007

_Royale-les-Eaux_

Bond brought his attention back to the present, and drove up to the Hotel Splendide just in time to see that the white Lancia was standing on the gravel sweep by the hotel steps, and a bagagiste, in a green apron and a striped waistcoat, was carrying to expensive-looking suitcases up to the entrance. 

He slid his car into the line of expensive cars in the car-park, told the same bagagiste, who was now taking small, rich stuff out of the Lancia, to bring up his bags, and went inside to the reception desk. There he found the manager waving aside the clerk in order to deal with Bond personally; he was greeted with much smiling effusion and Bond guessed the man would be reporting Bond's arrival to the Chief of Police, who would, in turn, inform the Deuxième and SDT.

"By the way, Monsieur Maurice, who is the lady who has just driven up in the white Lancia? She is staying here?"

"Yes, indeed, Mon Commandant." Bond received an extra two teeth in the manager's enthusiastic smile. "The lady is a good friend of the house. The father is a very big industrial from the South. She is La Comtesse Teresa di Vicenzo. Monsieur must surely have read of her in the papers. Madame la Comtesse is a lady – how shall I put it?" the smile became secretive, between men – "a lady, shall we say, who lives life to the full."

"Ah, yes. Thank you. And how has the season been?" 

The small talk continued as the manager personally escorted Bond up in the lift and showed him into one of the handsome grey and white Directoire rooms with a deep rose coverlet on the bed which Bond remembered well from other visits. Then, with a final exchange of courtesies, Bond was alone.

He found himself faintly disappointed – his girl from the Lancia sounded a bit too grand for him, and he didn't happen to like girls, film stars for instance, who were in any way public property. He liked private girls, girls he could discover for himself and make his own. Perhaps, he admittedly a little ruefully, there was some inverted snobbery in this. Perhaps, even less worthily, he considered that the famous ones were harder to get.

His suitcases were delivered and he unpacked in leisurely fashion, then ordered some champagne from Room Service. He drank some, then went into the bathroom for an ice-cold shower, washed his hair, then shaved very carefully. He dressed carefully in yet another pearl-grey suit with a matching tie, then he made his way downstairs, considering where he would go to eat before he headed to the Casino for what he hoped would be a night to remember.


End file.
